Haunted
by Ivy Rangee
Summary: A guess at how and why Heathcliff survived Cathy's death. Chapter 7: Gold into Lead - Heathcliff and Hindley have words.
1. The Two Burials

**This story is based on characters from Emily Bronte's **_**Wuthering Heights**_**. The inspiration came from Heathcliff's brief account of his strange experiences following Cathy's death as found in chapter twenty-nine; incidents from chapters six and seven, as well as chapters eleven through seventeen are also referenced in this story.**

**Haunted  
>By Ivy Rangee<strong>

**Chapter One: The Two Burials **

"Haunt me, Cathy…you say I am your murderer…haunt me… please, Cathy. Do not betray me in this, too," whispered Heathcliff, who, in his nineteenth year, feared his life forfeit to madness.

Shivering with grief and exhaustion, for he'd not slept since the night before Cathy's death, Heathcliff hid within a copse of trees on the ridge overlooking Gimmerton Church. Tears of grief alternated with cold, hard fear, for without Cathy, he had no source of solace, lost as he was, in a world that rejected him for the shallowest or reasons. With trembling hands, he ripped a piece of tall, ribbon grass from the earth, twirling it between his forefinger and thumb to ease his panic as he whispered his mantra.

"Cathy…haunt me. I beg you do not leave me in this netherworld without you."

His desperate chant ceased when the mort-bell tolled, announcing the arrival of the grim processional that bore Catherine Earnshaw's corpse. With slow, rhythmic steps, the pallbearers tread the rough, granite paving stones to enter the church. Twenty times the bell struck; two for Cathy's gender, then a pause followed by eighteen for her age. With each peal Heathcliff's dread increased. How could this be real? Why hadn't he simply taken her from Thrushcross Grange and found a competent doctor? Why had he listened to Nellie Dean?

On his last visit to Cathy, Nellie had stood sentinel, watching over them like a vulture, until he'd forced her from the room, but the meddling woman must have eavesdropped at the door, for she'd barged in as soon as Cathy fainted – blaming him as usual. Heathcliff wondered what fanciful story Nellie would spread in Gimmerton. No matter, his reputation was beyond repair. But this mattered little, for there was no pleasing this ignorant lot.

"Cathy, leave that meaningless ceremony and come to me. I've stood vigil, waiting. I've not forgotten you for a moment."

Shaking his head at the memory of Cathy's distant gaze, he threw his head back and wept. In truth, he'd known the moment he saw her that Cathy would not survive. She had broken her own heart and mind, choosing to live such a tame sham of a life, a pale reflection of the fate that would have been hers had she waited for him. This is what killed her, not his return, which only brought into focus that which she had sacrificed.

And what was the nature of that lost fate? Heathcliff's heart whispered of something deep, revivifying and all encompassing - a profound and consummate love - rare upon this earth. Somehow it felt so near and yet utterly out of reach, like a reflection in a mirror.

When, on that last day, Edgar had returned from church services, Nellie clamored for Heathcliff's departure before her master found him, but Cathy had begged him to stay. As always, Heathcliff obeyed Cathy's wishes, and, while he rocked her in his arms for the last time, she'd utterly charmed him, whispering in his ear of their deep connection, telling him how he should not mourn too long, because what they shared would remain unbroken even by death.

"Was that just pretty romantic lie, Cathy? If not, then where are you?" he whispered, tears making a water course through the smudges of dirt and blood that stained his face.

From his perch above churchyard, Heathcliff watched, as after a time, the black clad, dreary mourners meandered out of the church, making their way to Cathy's grave site, located on a grassy slope under a crumbling low wall which had lost its battle to restrain the heath. Though the curate had agreed to a service out of respect for the Earnshaw and Linton families, nevertheless, Cathy had been deemed a suicide for her refusal to eat. It had been hushed up because of her position, but in due time, the townspeople would understand and commence their parochial gossiping, for it was common knowledge that this section of the churchyard, though hallowed, had been reserved exclusively for those whose madness drove them to suicide.

A lopsided, sad smile crossed Heathcliff's lips; there was something oddly fitting about this particular resting place. On moonlit nights in all weather, he and Cathy had played in that very area, daring each other to stand on the graves and call forth the unfortunate, melancholy inhabitants. That superstitious lot below believed the wall kept self-murders in their graves, but Heathcliff and Cathy knew better. They'd had it on good authority that the spirits of suicides walk the earth forever, bound to it by the fearfulness of their deed, and, under certain circumstances they could be viewed. Thus, both he and Cathy had firsthand knowledge of the existence of ghosts.

"Shall I stand on your grave and call your name? Will you come to me then?" he cried.

Being in the perpetual state of _persona non grata_, Heathcliff had not been invited to the funeral. Just as always, he observed from the outside. One day he would find a way to enter her world so he might rest beside her. But he must outlive that idiot she'd married. And how would he manage that? Only this morning he'd put a gun to his head, with the intention of stopping the pain once and for all. But he'd changed his mind. What would his trifling wife, Isabella, do with his body? Bury him with a stake in his heart at a crossroads, no doubt.

Drawing his fist to his mouth, Heathcliff bit his hand to stifle a howl as the pallbearers lowered Cathy's coffin into the earth. Afterward, when the men freed the lowering ropes, a wave of anxiety gripped his chest with such intensity that it felt as if an entity held him fast, stealing his breath. Lightheaded, his heart pounding rapidly, he leaned against a tree, sliding down the trunk and squatting as grief possessed him once more. How could he live when she did not?

Looking to the heavens for relief, he flooded his mind with its infinity, and a momentary calm brought him back. He knew, having bribed several Grange servants for information, that Cathy's death was not, as Ellen said, entirely his fault. Though he had instigated the fight with Edgar, it was not Heathcliff that left her to suffer alone without food or water for three days after one of her fits. This had been the advice of that meddling manipulator, Nellie Dean, and, being a milquetoast, Linton had followed it. What kind of a man would allow his pregnant wife to languish without nourishment for that long?

Heathcliff stood, hatred pouring from heart, as he considered Edgar Linton and the paltry nature of that weakling's marriage vows. Heathcliff and Cathy had no need for the benediction of formal wedding vows. Their promises to each other were etched on their hearts, born of a love that ran endlessly deep, transcending the laws of men and gods. Even now he felt it trembling – so tender and heartbreaking.

Ripping a branch from a tree, he cursed, whipping its trunk, and imaging it to be Edgar Linton. No, a simple beating would not do, thought Heathcliff, dropping to his knees. Something much deeper, and more painful – something closer to the humiliation the Lintons had inflicted on him when he was still a boy.

The thought of Isabella's parents and how they might feel if they knew of his marriage to their useless, spoiled daughter brought on an outburst of hysterical laughter as he recalled how they had thrown him out of their house after Cathy had been bitten by their dog. Mister and Missus Linton deemed him a wicked boy, unfit for a decent household and contemplated hanging him on the spot, though he'd been guilty of nothing more than looking foreign. He'd have to be sure to remind Isabella of that day. She'd called him frightful and ordered him locked in the cellar.

Apparently they had been correct about his dubious character, for according to Nellie Dean his treatment of Isabella was despicable. He should not have embellished so much on the truth, but he couldn't stop himself, unnerved and angered as he had been by Nellie's mean-spirited words regarding Cathy. Of course, what Heathcliff did to Isabella he'd learned from the Earnshaws, the Lintons and even Nellie, herself; so his justifiable actions revealed a kind of beautiful, if perverse, symmetry. However, as badly as he treated her, Isabella lived; and, though pregnant, she was healthy as a horse. On the news of Cathy's death, the indefatigable woman had berated with him savage intensity while he wept. Noxious bitch!

By comparison, under Edgar's care Cathy had perished. He'd left her to starve in her room rather than relent on his demand that she give up her oldest, dearest friend because of his dubious origins, low caste and apparent moral degradation. Too, Heathcliff knew of Nellie's deep involvement – all of the Grange servants did – for she had been heard advising Edgar Linton to leave Cathy to suffer alone as punishment for her fiery temper. Heathcliff would never have listened to Nellie's cold-hearted rationality. If he had been Cathy's husband she would have been cared for - seen a proper doctor immediately. But then Cathy would never have been taken ill had she married him, because, though it might try Heathcliff severely, he would not have stood in the way of her friendship with Edgar, if that was what she wished. For Heathcliff knew denying Cathy would only drive her away, and, too, he had no desire to restrain her.

"Cathy, my love…" he murmured to the sky.

Upon his return to the Heights after his marriage to Isabella, Heathcliff had learned through Joseph of a rumor that Cathy's confinement was due not only to her pregnancy, but also to a grave, life threatening condition. Unable to get a straight answer from the old man, he'd found Ellen on Gimmerton Road and questioned her as to the nature of Cathy's illness, but the stupid woman insisted that Cathy had conjured it up herself.

Heathcliff sought the company of Doctor Kenneth, knowing the man loved to gossip about his patients for the status it brought him. Thus, Heathcliff lingered in the shadows of the local tavern, waiting for the good apothecary to get warmed up with a few drinks. That is how Heathcliff had learned of the true seriousness of Cathy's illness, which had been made worse by her pregnancy.

Always high strung, she'd had an apoplectic attack, a not uncommon occurrence in pregnancy, and that idiot she'd married failed to care for her, because a maidservant said so. Kenneth said she might have regained her faculties had she been bled immediately; as it was the damage proved irreversible. Though she might live, should she throw off her melancholy, she would never be the same.

"Why?" Heathcliff wondered. "Why did you not have faith in me? I would never have abandoned you, Cathy. I needed a way to enter your world – to be your equal."

Edgar Linton would pay, and when Heathcliff brought that simpering fool low, no doubt, he'd simply give up the ghost and die, the pampered weakling. And the sooner Heathcliff completed his revenge the sooner he, too, could die and take his place beside Cathy for there was nothing else for him in this strange, deranged world.

In horror, Heathcliff rose, watching as Edgar Linton walked to the edge of the burial pit and threw a handful of dirt onto his wife's coffin. The other mourners followed suit, and soon after the gravediggers commenced heaving shovel loads of dirt, unceremoniously covering poor Cathy. Heathcliff's body shook in terror at the thought of never seeing her again. How could he survive this violence?

Breathing came hard as he watched the mourners take their leave. He'd been waiting for this; now he would make his way to the churchyard where he would kneel at her graveside, praying she would wait for him, nay haunt him, relentlessly, until he finished with Edgar Linton, the man who had driven Cathy to an early grave. For where had the villain been when Cathy languished alone on the floor of her bedroom for three days – hiding in his library, teaching his dying wife a very permanent lesson. Had Edgar meant to kill her for the sin of loving an orphaned, plow boy?

His face scarlet with rage, Heathcliff followed the path down to the church only to be brought up short when he saw Linton lingering at the grave site. His hands twitched as he considered strangling the master of Thrushcross Grange. How good it would feel to squeeze the life out of that murderer. When that man, with his neck broken, lie staring with dull, unblinking eyes at the heavens, Heathcliff would dig up the grave and kiss Cathy one last time, and then he would make for the Heights where he'd first kill Hindley, then Isabella and finally himself.

But as he advanced on Edgar, he felt a light breath of wind ruffle his hair and something about its warm spring scent brought him to his senses. Stepping out of sight, he rolled his eyes, looking quite mad as he did so, but in truth his rationality returned. If he died now he'd not get his wish to dissolve entwined with Cathy. He did not have the circumstances in place that would allow him to be buried at her side.

Returning to the hill where he'd watched the burial, Heathcliff mounted his horse and sped across the moor, making his way to the cave where he and Cathy had played as children. There he threw himself down on a stone outcropping, rocking back and forth and weeping as he whispered his prayer begging her not abandon him. He did not notice the change in wind direction or the cold air it brought, until a light snow fell. Chilled to the bone, he entered the cave for shelter, relishing the darkness; he'd not return to the Heights until everyone slept, so he might proceed to his bedroom without a confrontation with Isabella.

From the moment he'd returned that woman stalked him day and night; seeking his attention anyway she could get it. Isabella wanted him all the time; in spite of the fact he'd made it perfectly clear from the beginning that he detested her whining, trifling ways, and she obviously felt the same about him for she referred to him as the demon. Yet he would wake to find her in his bed where she played odd tantalizing games that aroused him in spite of his protest, their aversion feeding a dark passion. Where had she learned such things?

Heathcliff recalled Isabella's look of triumph when news of Cathy's death reached the Heights. She had mocked him for his grief. At the moment though, he felt too exhausted to return and confront her; instead, he sat on a rocky ledge as a memory surfaced, unbidden, of the fateful night he and Cathy spied on the Linton children through the parlor window of Thrushcross Grange. The two moronic brats fought over a small dog, attempting to tear it in two rather than share it. How prophetic.

Childhood memories of Edgar and Isabella flooded him; especially the way they'd treated him when he'd entered the Grange to carry Cathy home after their dog had bitten her. How they'd reviled him for his appearance before they threw him out. That night he'd watched through the window as the Linton family waited on Cathy; until then he'd repressed it, but at that moment the heartrending truth shown crystal clear. He did not belong, but she did. Thus their perfect unity was torn asunder.

Later that same night, alone in his garret, he'd suffered the torments only lost children know, and he wondered why. Why did everyone but Cathy despise him? He did his work without grumbling, mostly. He did not fuss when they beat him. He was for the most part quiet, though he rebelled against Sunday church, but then so did Cathy. He truly did not understand how their religion worked; nobody seemed to follow its precepts. Preaching generosity towards others made sense, but he'd never seen anyone put into practice, save Cathy and Mister Earnshaw.

That same night, he'd walked to the garret window and faced its reflection: a dark, dirty, battered, ragged boy, who bore no resemblance to those creatures of light from Thrushcross Grange. He owed his appearance, in part, to Hindley who forced him to work from sunrise to sunset, beat him regularly and refused to pay him or replace his worn clothes. Then, too, these hungry ghosts placed great importance on family trees and places of origin. But Heathcliff could remember neither his family nor his country; however, one thing could not be denied: his skin, eyes and hair were much darker than theirs.

At the time he'd wondered if that made him a creature of darkness. Now he knew it did; he did not resemble them in any way. For though at the time he'd been enthralled by the glamour of Thrushcross Grange, he knew now that he did not crave objects or luxury; the austerity of the Heights, in the terrible beauty of the natural world with all its harshness was all he desired - and Cathy, of course.

When, just before Christmas, Cathy had returned from her recuperation at the Linton's she was utterly changed, having fallen under the spell of all she previously despised. There was indeed a wedge between them, yet Cathy never totally deserted him. On Christmas day, after he'd thrown hot applesauce in Edgar's ugly face, and been beaten and locked in his garret, she'd taken the extraordinary step of climbing through the skylight to be with him. He hoped she would show him the same ingenious mercy now.

Heathcliff searched in the darkness for a flint and one of their old lanterns. After lighting it, he walked onto the moor to find the snow still falling, even as it had grown dark. Gazing up into the overcast sky, he watched the big twirling flakes float slowly down, wondering where Cathy might be and what state she might be in. He prayed she had not become lost in fear; she would need her wits about her to find him. With a mournful sigh he mounted his horse to return to the Heights; he was unsure of the hour, but he'd risk it. Hunger drove him as well as the need to stop the blood that still trickled down his face from the self-inflicted gash on his forehead.

"Oh Cathy, do come."

Holding the lantern aloft, he rode toward the only childhood home he could recollect. Memories of Cathy stirred an intense longing to be in her presence, and it occurred to him that on an evening such as this no one would be about the churchyard. Veering toward Gimmerton Church he slogged through the mud, for the snow had changed to sleet even as the wind had picked up, howling a gale, assuring a solitary visit. Cathy's lamb of a husband would never venture out in a drizzle let alone a full-blown, spring snowstorm.

Entering the graveyard, he rode toward the low wall as the bare branches overhead whipped and clicked in the wind, the tender, budding tips breaking off and falling to the earth. Just as he drew his horse to a halt before the unmarked mound of dark earth that blanketed Cathy, the thick cloud cover broke round a waning gibbous moon; its silver light revealed eerie monstrous shadows cast by the animated trees. Undeterred, he threw the lantern to ground, and dismounting, he knelt beside her grave, weeping while gently running his hand over the damp earth that separated them.

"Cathy, do you remember our game? If I stand on your grave and call your name will you appear to me?"

But he did not try; she would never make it that easy. This would be a deadly serious game to Cathy, and Heathcliff wondered if he had the mettle to play it. He'd have to find it, for he had plans to carry forward; he must lie beside her and such a goal would not be achieved easily. Neither Edgar nor Isabella would allow it.

"You know Cathy, my love, when they bury me next to you, it will cause quite the scandal."

He laughed out loud and the dark crazy sound he'd uttered startled him.

"Did you hear that, Cathy? Something worthy of demon – I guess they must be right about me."

Leaning back on his heels, he realized that the barrier between them consisted of only two yards of wet earth. And for the second time that day he contemplated digging up her grave so he might hold her in his arms one last time.

"Shall I do it, Cathy? I'll hardly notice how cold you are; the night air is so frigid. I'll simply pretend that you sleep in my arms. When they find us in the morning perhaps they won't notice me and mistakenly bury both of us."

As if in answer, the wind rose, its crescendo a gale of such force and violence that it sounded as if horses stampeded over the moor.

"I'll take that as a yes," he shouted, as, wild with excitement, he ran to the sexton's tool shed where he seized a shovel.

Digging with a vengeance, he soon hit the entrance of her little house. Thrilled by her nearness, he threw the shovel aside, falling to his knees and scraping the dirt away with such vigor that the skin tore from his hands to leave bloody stains on the coffin's cover as the wood creaked under his weight, splintering around the metal screws. But then, having almost reached his heart's desire, he stopped, for he heard a deep sigh above him at the graves edge, and thinking he'd been discovered he stood listening.

"Who's there?" he said, his heart beating frantically as he awaited an answer. "Show yourself or I'll throttle you." When no answer came, he recommenced tearing at the coffin lid, shivering as the icy sleet stung him. Frustrated he grabbed the shovel, raising it over his head, but before he could bring it down to shatter the lid, he felt the warm breath of a sigh as if someone stood beside him whispering in his ear.

"Cathy?"

Though no audible answer came, he did feel one, for the sweet warmth increased, entering his heart and circulating through his tortured mind and aching body.

"Cathy, my love," he whispered, utterly consoled, for though he could not see her with his mortal eyes, he did apprehend her through a more subtle sense.

"Stay by my side, until I may join you," he murmured as placated he climbed forth from the muddy earth as if born anew. For he knew she no longer lived there.

After tenderly refilling her grave, he mounted his horse and waited for a sign. Whether moments went by or hours, he knew not, but after a time his horse lifted its head and, without direction from Heathcliff, trotted out of the churchyard. Heathcliff made no interference, relinquishing control, knowing without doubt that Cathy led the way. So it was that as his horse climbed the icy road to the Heights, Heathcliff heard the gentle tinkling of many tiny bells whispering of something utterly different - their song woven from a strange language that spoke through visions and phantasms. Any attempt to render its meaning into words would only diminish it. It would take volumes to decipher; even a great poet could only approximate its beauty with justice. So why bother with words and books when this precise and breathtaking picture language existed.

"Ah, Cathy, how long must I wait to enter your brave new world?" he smiled, remembering the words of her favorite play. No earthly answer came, instead, Heathcliff saw that he would not be free to leave until he broke the bondage of his fate, and, though that might take what seemed an eternity to him, for Cathy it would be only the blink of an eye.

"And will you stay with me as my Ariel until then?"

He could not tell whether she mocked him for he heard only the laughter of tiny bells. Thus he carried on what might have seemed drunken, delusional rambling to the casual, outside observer, but, for the few with deeper insight, it was clear that he conversed with the glistening shadow of a young woman, who guided him safely home.

8


	2. The Compact

**This chapter takes place in the early morning the day after Cathy's burial and Hindley's attempt on Heathcliff's life. It is based on the same chapters as previously cited.**

**Chapter Two: The Compact**  
>by Ivy Rangee<p>

Surrounded by a sky of blinding white, Heathcliff walked alone down a curving, hilly, dusty road that stretched to infinity. The invisible sun never set, relentlessly pouring forth its merciless light and heat. More than once, he'd fallen to his knees, the victim of a gravity so powerful that it felt as if he pulled a ball and chain. With stubborn fierce determination, he rose after each fall, muttering aloud, though with difficulty, as he peeled his tongue from the roof of his parched mouth.

"Where are you?" he whispered. "What country is this?"

Bells answered with a vision of an endless path.

"If only I could find shelter…or the sun would set."

With that, darkness travelled across the sky. It began at the forward horizon and spread rapidly over the dome of the heavens. A huge red moon rose, and before him a forest grew, vast and deep.

"What is this?" he asked, entering the dark, strange, tangled wood. He ran his hand over the dewy, deep purple vegetation, and, collecting the wetness in a folded leaf, he drank, feeling remarkably refreshed after only a few drops.

A small circle of light beckoned him, and he followed it to a meadow full of asphodel where he lay down exhausted, gazing into the midnight sky filled with strange new constellations. And as he stared, the stars began to spin, speeding up until they formed a vortex of such power that it overcame the gravitational force of this heavy place, tearing him from the surface, impelling him through its center, and flinging him out the other side where he flew across the sky, landing with a somersault in a vast green moor.

There he lay, inhaling the delicious scent of the heath, and watching the radiant blue sky as plovers reeled overhead. Sensing someone awaited his arrival, he stood and, brushing the soil from his clothes, he realized he wore the attire of a bridegroom.

"Heathcliff," spoke a warm voice. "Everyone is waiting."

"Cathy," he called aloud. "But which way?"

"Just walk, the direction matters not."

"How can that be?" he wondered aloud. But he did as the disembodied voice commanded, deciding to climb the hill before him. On first view, it had not seemed that steep, but as he ascended, the hill elongated, gaining altitude or perhaps he just kept finding himself at the bottom. Whatever the reason, he only made the crest with extreme effort. And there at the top Hareton awaited him. The child carried a white lace pillow with two rings placed in the center.

"Let's go together, Heathcliff," laughed Hareton.

"Where, child?"

"Over the next rise."

Heathcliff followed the boy, climbing steadily, but with less effort this time, until they reached a plateau, where a beautiful blue silk pavilion stood; its flags flowing gracefully in a gentle breeze. People milled about it as if waiting for an event to commence. One pointed toward them, after which the crowd entered the tent. Heathcliff watched their shadowy figures as they took their seats.

"They're waiting for us," cried Hareton.

"But why?"

The two crossed the remaining distance with remarkable speed, and entered the shimmering tent.

"What now, my boy?" asked Heathcliff, resting his hand on Hareton's shaggy, dark hair.

"Look!" said the boy, pointing down the misty aisle, where a bride stood. Though a gossamer veil covered her face, Heathcliff had no doubt Cathy waited. Love, sorrow, relief, happiness and much more roiled in Heathcliff's heart, as his tears surfaced. He made to run down the aisle, but Hareton caught Heathcliff's long coat, angering the anxious bridegroom, who raised his hand to strike the boy. However, the reflection in the Hareton's eyes of Heathcliff's own battered childhood at the hands of the same oppressor stopped him.

"Do not look to either side," said Hareton, motioning for Heathcliff to follow, and the processional of two commenced the long walk.

Obeying the boy's directions Heathcliff kept his eyes only on Cathy, but with some difficulty for the shadowy guests intruded on his peripheral vision, waving their misty hands and whispering. After what must have been miles, for like the hill, the aisle elongated over and over again, they reached the bride, who stood beside two carved stone basins each full of sparkling clear water.

Overcome with emotion, Heathcliff gazed at Cathy's figure, offering her his shaking hand, which she accepted, with a tentative, icy grip. Interrupting their reunion, Hareton pulled on Heathcliff's sleeve, bringing his attention to the rings.

Heathcliff had not noticed the exquisite beauty of the rings until that moment; they had been cast as golden ivy circlets with silver tendrils that seemed to writhe as if the rings lived, and, when the two lovers exchanged bands, the rings wove and wound around their fingers until each fit perfectly, seeming more like tattoos than wedding bands.

Afterward Cathy led Heathcliff to the stone basins.

"Lift her veil," whispered Hareton, who had grown both taller and more mature.

Heathcliff obeyed, shocked to find her skin pale and translucent, her hair unraveled and her gaze vacant. Hareton handed him a stone cup.

"Give her some water."

"Water?"

"Yes, the waters of Mnemosyne, so she'll remember."

Heathcliff dipped the translucent jade cup into the clear water and then, lifting it to Cathy's lips, he fed her the legendary liquid. Immediately, her eyes revivified, and, as she searched his face, he watched recognition dawn.

"Heathcliff," she beamed at him. "You came for me, my love."

"Cathy."

Heathcliff embraced her, and she returned his embrace with all the strength of the rugged girl she had once been. Hareton stepped between them, taking the cup from Heathcliff and handing it to Cathy.

"What are you doing, my bonny lad?" asked Heathcliff.

"Now you must drink the waters of the River Lethe."

"Lethe?"

"So you can forget and let go."

"I don't want to forget. I shall cause my oppressors to suffer as I have suffered. They will writhe with pain, forever regretting their actions."

"Aye, and that is the root of all that still binds you to the Heights. You will never be free until you break your fate," intoned the grownup Hareton.

Cathy held the cup to his lips, but Heathcliff hesitated, and, forgetting Hareton's warning, he turned away from the proffered cup to confront the guests whose shadowed figures clarified. To his horror before him stood Hindley, Edgar, Isabella, Missus Earnshaw, Mister and Missus Linton as well as all the others who had persecuted him. Anger and hatred shot through him, as the assembled guests jeered him, calling him a demon, a goblin and worse. They screamed for his execution and interment in hell.

"Look only at me," shouted Cathy.

"They must be made to pay, Cathy," growled Heathcliff. "Or they will continue to prey on anyone they deem beneath them."

With that Heathcliff felt the pull of the vortex wrenching him from his wedding ceremony. He held out his hands to Cathy, but she could not reach him as she appeared to grow younger and thus smaller.

"Cathy!" he screamed, but all that answered was the anguished discordant tinkling of silver bells as if a child wept.

The vortex flung him to the sun burnt ground of the dusty road where he'd started this journey. Lying prostrate, his chest heaved as he recovered his breath, and all the while dark mahogany vines rose rapidly, imprisoning him. No greenery or flowers grew upon them, only thick sharp thorns. No one could enter, and he could not exit, for whichever way he turned they pierced him.

"Why…damn it, why?" And the bells clamored at him while he wept, whispering Cathy's name.

"Wake, up…Wake up…Wake up," sang a young woman's voice close to his ear.

"How did you get past the thorns?" he wondered aloud, believing he spoke to Cathy.

"Thorns? Ah well, I suppose you are a thorn penetrating all our sides," she giggled, touching icy cold water to his dry, parched lips.

Reckoning he'd been granted a second chance, he drank greedily. Let oblivion take him as long as Cathy walked at his side.

"Wake up…" she ordered, running a damp cloth over his face and neck. "And what have you done to your forehead? You know you are really quite beautiful even in your strangeness. Indeed, I believe it makes you even more attractive."

"Isabella," he whispered, tearfully. "Stop…touching me."

"You look terrible, and, as your wife, it is my duty to see to you."

"I've told you to stay out of my room," he murmured with his eyes still closed, hoping she might creep away so he could re-enter the dream world. If only Isabella would obey him, but there was no prospect of that, for even though she'd married him, she still looked down on him as a lowly plow boy.

"This is a lady's room, Heathcliff. It a bit frou-frou for the likes of you."

"Leave me." He tried to sound harsh, but seven days with little sleep and no food had weakened him.

"How did you get in such a state? Never mind; don't answer that – something weird, no doubt. I prefer to remain in ignorance."

"Have you seen Hindley?" Heathcliff gave up and opened his eyes. "What in hell are you wearing?"

"I thought you might like this. And yes."

"You really are a slut."

"Ah, but you love it."

"Tell me you didn't parade around like that in front of Hindley."

"Of course not, I wore a robe. Can you imagine Joseph's reaction?"

In better days that picture would have brought him laughter, but in his current mood it seemed dreary, sad and all too predictable.

"How is Hindley's injury?" asked Heathcliff, his voice raspy. "And put on your robe."

"How would I know the condition of his injury? And I don't want to put on my robe; I made this to please you."

"Your concern for another who's been injured is deeply heartwarming, Isabella. The man practically bled to death last night."

"But he attacked you. And what about my wounds?"

"You seem to have recovered."

"But you must be grateful to me; I saved your life."

Heathcliff smirked at her. Under no circumstance would Hindley ever get the better of him again, even if Heathcliff were on his last breath, he'd still whip the shit out of Hindley.

"Go away, Isabella. And put some clothes on; you'll freeze to death."

"You're covered in mud. Did you fall from your horse in the storm? When was the last time you ate? I'll get some porridge," said the young wife, sitting on the bed, and attempting to bathe him.

"Good idea; go get some porridge. Wait, did you make it?"

"Me? I am not a servant; I do not prepare meals."

"In that case, I'll have some. Now be off with you."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"There's no fooling you," he replied, using his foot to slide her off the bed.

"Really Heathcliff, you've been shouting her name," blurted the petulant young woman, stomping her foot. "How could you? Have you no consideration for how your obsession humiliates me?"

"Whose name?"

"You idiot! Catherine's, of course! Cathy…Cathy…Cathy," she cried imitating his odd accent.

"Get out!"

"You act like a pathetic dog that has lost its master. Weeping and moaning over a heap of dust. Is that how you got so muddy? Rolling about on her burial mound like some bereft hound with its tongue hanging out?"

"Leave my sight!"

"I am your wife, not Catherine; your behavior is inappropriate in the extreme!"

"What would you know of appropriate behavior, you stupid wench?"

"I know that I have stayed by your side, while she betrayed you. But like the mongrel cur you are, in your heart you remain true to that cheating tramp, even as she lies moldering in her grave."

Fury gripped Heathcliff, as he attempted to strike her. But Isabella retreated across the room; she needn't have, for dizziness overcame as he tried to sit up. Seven days of extreme grieving had taken their toll. Turning his back on Isabella, he rested, seething even as he ignored her.

"You cannot bare the truth; can you? Cathy returns to dust and ash, her soul traveling to a heaven from which you are forever barred. How that must hurt," giggled Isabella. "Words cannot express my happiness over your grief."

"Be gone, Isabella…" whispered the exhausted young man, picking up a book from lattice sill and throwing at her. It fell well short.

"Or what? You have made yourself sick with your prolonged self-indulgent anguish. And now you are too weak to rise from the bed. What can you do to me? Now who is writhing? This is just too delightful."

"Leave me alone," begged Heathcliff, tearfully, for her words had hit their mark. He could never win at direct verbal sparring with Isabella. She always out-maneuvered him, somehow intuiting his weaknesses and using them as target practice for her verbal arrows.

"And thank God she's dead, for I hate her; she destroyed my marriage. And anyway, in her demented state she would have been a burden to everyone." She said these last words in a fit of hysterical laughter, but stopped suddenly, dropping into a chair beside an old black clothes press, where she wept.

"Is that why your brother let her die?" cried Heathcliff. "She would never have been a burden to me! I would have happily cared for her."

"Like the baseborn scum, you are."

Heathcliff pulled the door to the old wardrobe bed closed, sliding under the covers, and crying like a child. Indeed, Isabella had been quite accurate; he doubted that he would ever again be allowed to enter the heaven Cathy had drawn him into in his early morning dream.

"Heathcliff?" called Isabella, knocking on the door to the closet bed, after a long silence. "Perhaps, I…"

"You have always known the truth about me, Isabella. I never lied to you. Our union is about children and the property rights they afford. You were once as angry as I."

"Indeed, I was angry; Edgar yielded to Catherine's wishes over mine in all things. She came into our lives as a wondrously brave and knowledgeable figure. We were three friends, but then she and Edgar became sweethearts, and the two shunned me. Too, I was completely at their mercy, since my parents left me nothing, not even a small stipend."

"Just as old Earnshaw abandoned me, leaving me to the mercy of Hindley, who the old man knew hated me. How could he bring me here and leave me penniless after his death? At least your brother cared for you, Hindley cast me out."

"My complete dependence on Edgar and Catherine's kindness drove me mad. The need to always please…never ruffle Catherine's prickly feathers."

"And has the reality of your choice quelled your anger? Would you go crawling back for forgiveness?"

"No, never! How could I? Edgar threw me away without a second thought. Perhaps he wanted to be rid of me, thinking I'd be nothing but a disruption and burden to his new family."

"He would have found an advantageous marriage for you."

"Why would I trust a brother, who cares so little for me? He considered marrying me off to Hindley so he might have a better chance at the Heights. No, I shall make my own decisions and my own mistakes. It is true I crave vengeance."

"Why me, Isabella?'

"All women love a brooding pirate."

"Flattery does nothing for me. I'm beyond vanity."

"I wanted to show Catherine that I could…"

"What?"

"Control you…You know how she brags…bragged that only she had the power to stop you from murdering Hindley and Edgar; I wanted to throw her out of her comfortable manger. Puncture her vanity by taking what she values most."

"And you reckon that's me?"

"For reasons I shall never comprehend, it is; but then too, like her, I love you."

"I told you I could never love you."

"I had hoped…"

"That you could change me?"

"Yes."

"It is not possible…I'm utterly…broken, as you well know."

"Let us call a truce, please; I'm your wife," pleaded Isabella. "We want the same things, and now that Catherine is dead, you can forget her and turn to me. I shall comfort you."

Heathcliff heard the clamor of discordant bells just outside the lattice and, turning the latch, he pushed it open. The cold breath of the spring snow storm invaded the room, bathing him in its bracing frigidity as he closed his eyes with a smile.

"Cathy," he whispered. "Are you close?"

"_I am," _came the answer only he could hear.

"Are you mad?" said Isabella, pulling the wardrobe bed's door open. "You cannot talk to the dead. And close that window."

"I told you to put on your robe."

"Forget Catherine," whispered Isabella, turning away.

"Isabella, where is Hareton?"

"Last I saw him, the little darling was in the kitchen, strangling puppies," replied Isabella, climbing on the bed, and lying down next to him. "Heathcliff, let's leave this place; you're rich. We need not spend another season in this hell."

"Hell, is it?" He smiled at the aptness of the metaphor. "Has Hareton had breakfast?"

"I don't know, and I don't care."

"What a charming sentiment. Really, that sort of talk makes you just so damned appealing."

"That child is a monster; he hates me. Have you any idea how he torments me? Why should I care if he starves?"

"He is a child whose father tried to murder him. Have some compassion."

"Compassion from the man who has no pity?"

"Hareton and I share the same oppressor. I understand him."

"What about compassion for me?" she demanded.

Heathcliff shot her a canny glance. How could he ever feel sorry for such a pampered creature? Turning on his side, he stared out the window, as he tried to focus on all the rational reasons he'd had for marrying her. But perhaps, he needn't continue living with such a helpless human being.

"Cathy…" he murmured, but then to Isabella. "Where is the porridge you promised me?"

"Can't we get a cook and a kitchen maid? You have money."

"This is Hindley's home. I'll not contribute a pence more than I must to that bastard's household."

"Must you use such language? And why do you despise him so?"

Heathcliff turned to her; his expression and odd combination of puzzlement and rage. "You damned idiot! You really don't know?"

"You frighten me when look at me that way. You seem… demonic."

"Then get the hell out!"

"You should see yourself; you look like the devil himself," cried Isabella, taking up her robe and running for the door.

"If I had a pence for every time you've repeated that…" he said, turning back to the open lattice.

Grateful to be alone, he watched the snow fall slowly in large feathered flakes, all the while wondering what he must do to return to the other world he'd witnessed in his dream. What had dream-Hareton said? That he must break his fate?

"Cathy, I'll never forget you. You are the only light in my sorry life. Let my wish be fulfilled, that our mutual betrayal may be negated; I shall make whatever payment is required, that our souls may be reunited."

"_Hurry, my love,"_ whispered the disembodied voice made of singing bells. "_It is so lonely and cold without you."_

"Yes, I shall."

He closed his eyes, loosing a storm of weeping so deep he could barely gather a breath until it passed. In the calm that followed, he dozed entering a dream, where he stood on the edge of a vast green moor. But this was not to last, for the door flew open and his wife shuffled into the room.

"Heathcliff, look what I've done; I've brought you porridge and tea."

Heathcliff groaned in answer.

"You must eat something. You look positively skeletal."

"Isabella…"

"Come, come sit up. I'll help you remove your filthy shirt and britches,' said the young woman placing the tray on a table. She poured water in the wash bowl and carried it to his bed, spilling only half as she walked. He tried to push her away, but she forced him out of bed, pulling his clothes off.

"Sit down," she commanded bringing a chair to where he stood shivering.

"Isabella…must you…" But he took the seat, too weak to stand.

"Your skin is such a beautiful creamy tan, like coffee mixed half with cream. You'd be perfect if it weren't for all theses scars. How did you get them?"

"Are you daft?"

"Why do you insult me?"

"You know very well how I got them."

"I do not!"

"Have you forgotten the Christmas after Cathy was bitten by your dog, Skulker?"

"Christmas?"

"When I threw applesauce at Edgar, and you cried like a big baby to go home. If only you had!"

"Oh…You mean Hindley?"

"You really are dense!"

"Hindley did all of this?"

"For the most part; Joseph and Nellie deserve some credit."

"Was it horribly painful?"

"Only the first fifty times…Isabella?"

"Heathcliff?"

"Do you remember that day… when your dog attacked Cathy?

"Vividly."

"Do you remember me on that day?"

Isabella remained silent for a while, bathing his shoulders, chest and back. "Were you rolling in mud? Look at the water in the basin. You really need a bath. Do you think Joseph could carry the tub up here?"

"Not without killing himself."

"Hmm…don't tempt me."

"Leave him alone; old Earnshaw favored him, but you have not answered my question."

"Yes, I remember you."

"What do you think your parents would say if they knew of your marriage to me?"

"What do I care? Their only concern was Edgar."

"But what would they do, knowing you'd married the little Lascar?"

"They would have done the same as Edgar. And it would make little difference, since they left me with nothing."

"What of your dowry?"

"You know the answer; it's forfeit."

"There's no need for it; I'm far richer than Edgar could ever imagine."

"Then let us forget our vendetta, and move on."

"Do you remember what you and Edgar were up to that night?"

"What night?"

"The night your dog attacked Cathy."

"No."

"You were fighting over your little dog, Arsehole."

"Don't call Fanny that."

"You have to admit it fits."

"Heathcliff, why did you lie to Mrs. Dean?"

"Lie?"

"About Fanny?"

"I have it on good authority that on the night we eloped, Nellie found that hellhound with rope around its neck, dangling from a larch tree."

"Is Fanny departed?" whispered Isabella, tears in her eyes.

"Unfortunately no, Nellie cut it down."

"Who would do such a thing?"

"Perhaps she lied; Nellie Dean is a gossip, well know for playing with the truth."

"Was it you?"

"You know very well it wasn't. I only stunned the ridiculous thing when it bit me."

"You're such a brute - punching Miss Fanny."

"That dog is an ill omen, and since when did you start addressing it with honorifics?"

"Why did you make it seem like you forced me to choose between you and Fanny, when that is not what happened at all."

"It seemed so appropriate."

"How?"

"Your fight with Edgar over the dog so long ago; Cathy and I would never have had such a dispute."

"No, you would have deferred to her."

"In that light I ask you, who is the greater gentleman?"

"You have a point. But what has that got to do with me choosing between you and Miss Fanny?"

"As Cathy and I watched your spoiled display, I wondered if there was anything that you would have preferred to that dog or did you simply want to keep it from your brother."

"I love Miss Fanny; she's mine, not Edgar's."

"But you chose me."

"You are far more intriguing then that little dog. Yes, I would always choose you; is that what you want to hear? I wish I had not been so cruel to you when we were children. No wonder you hate us."

"Hate? Is that the right word? Perhaps abhor, no…no detest… or maybe loathe. Yes, loathe is much closer, but even that doesn't do it justice. I'll have to invent a word."

"But why did you lie to Nellie Dean? She's probably telling everyone what a cruel monster you are."

"Nellie has spread lies about me since my childhood, and will continue to do so until she can no longer speak."

"But you gave her fodder."

"In order to protect the true culprit."

"Who?"

"Hareton, who else? He followed me that night."

"That devil…but how could he? It was the well past midnight."

"The child's guardian neglects him; Hareton prowls about at all hours, trying to avoid his father. I've even found the boy dead drunk in the kitchen cupboard at midmorning while his father roared through the house threatening Joseph and I at knife point."

"The boy deserves a whipping, but I'm terrified of him. He pelted me rocks while I prepared your meal and bathing water. He only stopped when I said the food was for you. Be careful when you eat it though, I'm not sure I fished all the pebbles out."

"He only imitates his father. The day he hung Miss Arsehole, Hindley had done the same to Hareton's puppy from the balcony balustrade."

"Her name is Fanny."

"You cannot stay here, Isabella."

"Does this mean we -"

"Not we; you must go."

"You are casting me out?"

"No, I'll support you and the child."

"I shall be utterly humiliated - banished by a low caste man without a surname."

"There it is, and so it will always be. You despise me for my low birth. You do not respect me, and for that reason we shall always argue."

"You cannot do this to me; I shall find a solicitor. I've done nothing to shame you."

"Oh but you have."

"What do you mean?"

"You wrote to Nellie Dean, complaining about me."

"You romanced me, and then convinced me to write that letter to lure Mrs. Dean over here. Just so you could question her about Cathy's condition. You even dictated the letter."

"Isabella, you are with child; it is too dangerous for you here. You must know that after Hindley's attack last night. Look at the bruises on your face and wound on your neck."

"No, Heathcliff, no! You repeat Edgar's actions, throwing me out like an old shoe."

"Do not compare me to that idiot! I must stay here."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons."

"Tell me; I'm your wife."

"I cannot; you would not understand."

"Is it Catherine? She's dead, Heathcliff…deceased…departed. You cannot be in her presence any longer."

"Stop!"

"But I love you."

"Isabella, you saved my life last night. For that I am in your debt."

"So you cast me aside?'

"As I said, I shall support you and the child. And I'll accept the blame."

"You will not force me out."

"Remember our purpose, Isabella. Remember your rage! If our child is to rule over Edgar and Hindley's, I must stay here and create the circumstances. You must care for the child, and raise him to be a lord."

"I would prefer to do that at your side."

"It cannot be; I'll purchase a house and have it deeded in your name, any place you choose as long as it is far from here. The child must not be allowed to bond to his cousins."

"But why?"

"Because, if he develops affection for them through childhood play, he will always have to fight his sympathies."

"You keep saying he; I thought we agreed…"

"Yes, he or she, I shall amend my will accordingly. If it is a girl everything will go to her independent of her marriage partner."

"Are you sure that is possible?"

"It is through a trust overseen by a solicitor."

"But then he will have control."

"I may write the conditions of the trust to meet my wishes. And if we have a daughter I wish her to be free."

"You will not break this promise?"

"It is what I live for."

"Heathcliff, if I agree to this how will I live?"

"You may have three servants and an ample allowance."

"But the humiliation."

"You will go to the Grange and tell Nellie Dean that we fought, I beat and wounded you, and, after Hindley tackled me, you made your escape. Blame me for everything, explaining that you chose to leave me."

"That makes no sense. Hindley could never hold you back. Weak as you are, last night you easily neutralized his attack and beat him senseless."

"We laid the ground work when we argued in front of Nellie."

"That we spend seventy-five percent of our time in heated debate is well established, but Hindley tackling you…that simply isn't possible."

"Nellie prides herself on her common sense, but when it comes down to it she's as gullible as the rest. There is no need to embellish much; she will do that for us."

"Shall I ever see you again?"

"Yes, we'll meet on occasion, and you must keep me appraised of the child and your situation, but do not send letters to the Heights. I have an attorney in Liverpool; address everything to him. When you have settled somewhere contact him, immediately. I'll provide you with money for your escape, but you must make it look good and Edgar, who will, no doubt seek you out, must believe we have made a clean break."

"I shall enjoy deceiving him."

"I think we must open that wound on your neck to make our story believable."

"I shall make a good show of it; I'll fly across the moor without coat and bonnet as if fleeing your imminent wrath."

"You must wear something sweet and innocent – for sympathy's sake. And before you enter the house pay one of the stable boys to ride to Gimmerton and fetch you a carriage."

"Indeed, it is best if I not stay long."

"Yes, just long enough to give a brief account to Nellie and gather your things. I suppose you will take that piece of fluff from hell?"

"Yes, if it is Fanny of whom you speak…Heathcliff?"

"What?"

"My own brother has disavowed me; however, you are more than generous."

"I do owe you my life."

"Does this mean you have softened in your regard for me?"

"Will an alliance of comrades in arms do? That is best I can manage."

"So you no longer loathe me or what ever word you have chosen for how you feel?"

"I no longer loathe you."

"What than?"

"Hmmm…extreme distaste…utter disdain? Now help me eat and dress before you go."

"Heathcliff, would you kiss me one last time?"

"Yes, but close the lattice," he said after gazing at her for a long moment. Isabella smiled, obeying his request.

"And promise me you will not hold back," she said, returning to where he stood and handing him the scarf that had hung around her neck.

"Have I ever?" asked Heathcliff, covering her eyes with the scarlet silk, and then tying securely it in place with a bow.


	3. Conspirators

**Chapter Three: Conspirators – in which Heathcliff Befriends Hareton **  
><strong>Part One<strong>

Candle in hand, Heathcliff followed the narrow, dusty second floor servant's hallway to the steps that would take him down to the kitchen. As usual he was the first one up, but then neither Hindley nor Hareton had been to bed. He'd checked their rooms; Hindley might do as he pleased, but Hareton, well, the boy needed guidance.

It being four in the morning, Joseph still slept; so it was that Heathcliff resurrected the hearth fire, and afterward prepared coffee and porridge under the watchful eye of a voyeur hidden within the old cupboard. Heathcliff smiled, remembering how Cathy had hidden him from Hindley's malice in the very same place. She'd whispered words claiming they placed a ward on the cupboard rendering it invisible to the violent. After that day, Hindley never once searched there, and that remained true to this day.

"Cathy," he whispered, but no answer came. She had been close the first few days after her burial, but for the last few days he'd received no response. He'd spent those days considering how he would bring ruin on Hindley Earnshaw and Edgar Linton. There would be no need to break any laws; every man had his Achilles' heel that fell well within legal limits.

"Answer me, Cathy."

But no sound came. In one small way that pleased him, the last ten days without Isabella's constant pestering had been a relief. The woman simply did not know how to be silent. Heathcliff had already received word from her through his solicitor; she'd found a cottage and a servant to the south in a small city called Millcote. Naturally, the extravagant, helpless idiot had spent too much of his money, and required more, but truly the freedom and quiet her absence afforded was worth every penny.

"Mmmm…nice, warm porridge with a bit of butter," said Heathcliff, averting his eyes to see if Hareton had made any move to come out, but the boy still hid. "Ah…I know what's missing; can't have porridge without milk."

Heathcliff made his way to the cold room for a pitcher of milk with which to entice the little spy, who had a weakness for the frothy white substance. Knowing the preciousness of a secret refuge, Heathcliff would not invade Hareton's hiding place. He would act as if he knew nothing of its existence.

"Bloody hell," growled Heathcliff, after pulling a drowned, soggy mouse by the tail from the milk container. "Who left the milk uncovered?"

Heathcliff knew very well who had done it, since a trail of childish milky handprints told the tale. However, it would not do to call the wary child out for such a trifling mistake. That he would leave to Joseph; no, Heathcliff would cover up the error, making him and the boy conspirators.

"I'd best throw this out before Joseph finds it or there will be hell to pay," he said, loud enough for Hareton to hear. "I'd better replace it…and I'd better find a sharp house cat that can survive Hindley."

After tossing the milk and the mouse out, Heathcliff took the old kitchen lantern down from its hook by the door and lit it, making for the cow barn. Knowing of the boy's love for fresh milk, Heathcliff had no doubt that Hareton would follow. The young man crossed the yard briskly, breathing in the bracing early morning air which had a fecund sweetness to it that only occurs in early spring, just after the last snows have melted. Stopping for a moment at the barn entrance, he drank it in as he listened to the child's soft footsteps. Upon entering, he hung the lantern on a hook, and he prepared the cow for milking, all the while humming a song from his earliest childhood. In his years as a farmhand, he'd discovered that cows love music, releasing their milk more freely. Of course, children love music too, singing had been one of old Earnshaw's ways of enticing Heathcliff out of the darkness.

"We, like leaves, sway to and fro.

Happy leaves! Dancing leaves!

Swinging as the breezes blow,

So will we ever be

Blithe and joyous as we go.

Hi-o!

"Dance the leaves in sunlight,  
>Dance the leaves in dark night,<br>Leaves ever, ever dance on the tree,

The Tree!"

"Sing it again," said Hareton, creeping up on Heathcliff and placing his small hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Will you sing, too?" asked Heathcliff in the flickering firelight.

The boy shook his head and returned to the shadows.

"As you wish." And Heathcliff repeated the song until he'd filled the milk pail to its brim. Meanwhile Hareton had slowly stolen back, standing beside Heathcliff and watching him work.

"I've never seen Angelina give Joseph so much milk," murmured Hareton, dipping his finger in the pail and then licking the milk from it.

"Angelina?"

"Yes, that's the cow's name. I've only ever seen her give him half as much; he thought some witch must've cast fairy bolts on her."

"Perhaps Joseph doesn't have the touch."

"Nay, who'd want to be touched by Joseph?"

"You have me there, lad," said Heathcliff with a smile. "Shall I teach you how to milk her?"

"Would you?"

"If you wish, but you must sing for the best results."

"I shall…then I'll not need Joseph for milk."

"The old bugger withholds milk for some sort of payment, does he?" asked Heathcliff.

"Yes, indeed, the old bugger does," laughed Hareton. And with that smile, the boy's normally dour face completely changed, revealing an uncanny resemblance to young Cathy.

"And what is the cost?" asked Heathcliff, closely examining this new face revealed through the child's laughter.

"Recitation of Bible verses."

"And you find that?"

"Bloody dull."

"Bloody dull, is it?" laughed Heathcliff. "Ah, well some things never change. Will you join me for breakfast?"

"Can I have some of that?" asked the boy, pointing at the milk.

"I don't know; can you?"

"I can," said Hareton, jumping up and down.

"Here take the lantern and lead the way," said Heathcliff, picking up the pail, and starting for the house. "Come now, don't lag; it's best we eat before the other two wake."

"Where is Hindley?" asked Hareton, warily.

"Are you referring to your father?"

"Is there another Hindley about?"

"Gods, I hope not; you'll give me nightmares, lad."

Hareton found that comment immensely funny, and Heathcliff watched as the normally belligerent child giggled happily. The boy's dark hair and eyes resembled Cathy's; even his smile and the set of his jaw brought Cathy to mind. It seemed as if she lived through the son of Heathcliff's worst tormentor. With the sight of the lad giggling at Hindley's expense, came a storm of memories so intense that Heathcliff's eyes filled with tears.

"That was funny, Heathcliff," chuckled the boy, opening the door.

"Was it, child?" asked Heathcliff, controlling his voice.

"Yes," he answered, emphatically.

"Perhaps, it would be prudent to refer to Hindley as papa or father when you are in his presence."

"Why?" said the boy, frowning.

"Because such familiarity is disrespectful and, distasteful as it may be, he is your father." Setting the bucket down on the kitchen counter, Heathcliff turned his back to Hareton, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He stood motionless for a long moment and then took a cup from the cupboard, filling it from the pail.

"I hate him," said Hareton after gulping down the milk. His upper lip covered in milk, Hareton grinned at Heathcliff, holding the cup out for more.

"You are a shrewd judge of character, and you must use that to your advantage." Heathcliff filled the cup once more, and handed it to the child.

"How?"

"When you call him Hindley, he gets angry and he whips you; does he not?" asked Heathcliff, setting out the table things.

"When he can catch me," replied Hareton, right on Heathcliff's heels.

"It is true you are very good at tricking him; you're much smarter than I ever was. But why play into his hand?"

"Hindley whipped you, too?" asked Hareton.

"Oh, yes, many times, when I was only a little older than you."

"Why?"

"Infinite reasons."

"Infant?"

"In-fin-ite - more reasons than you can count. I hid from him, too. But back to my point, if you refer to him as father in his presence what do you think will happen?"

"He will be pleased."

"Indeed, and that will save you a lot of grief."

"But when I call him father he sometimes demands a kiss."

"And you don't want to kiss him?"

"I'd rather kiss a snake."

"An apt description," commented Heathcliff, finding it impossible to dislike the boy.

"Who would want to kiss a snake?" said Hareton, disgust clear on his face.

"Oh, you would be surprised, but that is another story."

"There are people who kiss snakes?"

"Routinely, and to them it is an honor and a blessing."

"Are you making this up?"

"I've seen it."

"Where, Heathcliff? And how'd they do it?"

"I would be happy to tell you, but another time. Let's get back to the problem at hand; since you don't wish to kiss your father, it is there you must draw the line. Call him father, but under no circumstances kiss him."

"Where is he now?" asked the boy, suddenly wary.

"Incapacitated at the moment."

"Inca…what?"

"He's passed out drunk."

"Oh…are you sure?

"Indeed, I am. Let's eat," said Heathcliff, sitting down.

"But where is he?"

"In the sitting room, can't you hear the thunderous roar of his snoring?"

Hareton crossed the kitchen, his shoes clicking on the pavers. Opening the door a sliver, he peeked through. "How long has he been out?"

"His singing, if you can call it that, woke me up. But you must have heard it."

"No, I'd just come in from the moor, when you came down. Are you sure about the time?"

"I am," replied Heathcliff, as he watched the boy's body relax. _This _Heathcliff understood; as a child he too had lived in a state of hyper-vigilance, ever in fear of Hindley's imminent arrival.

"Then we're safe for an hour or two," pronounced the child, sitting across the table from Heathcliff.

"Tell me about your ramble on the moor."

Hareton chattered on between bites, and, while the two shared a peaceful respite from Hindley's madness and Joseph's apocalyptic babbling, the darkness outside the window gradually lifted, in a burst of red and orange bands that slowly gave way to a piercing blue sky.

The day would be a warm one; a good day to cross the moor for Gimmerton fair. Too, Heathcliff had business with Green, the solicitor. He wondered if he should bring Hareton. To that end, Heathcliff took stock of the boy. He desperately needed caring for; his clothes, though newish, were stained with dirt and ill tailored, hanging on his skinny body, his long, messy hair was filthy and he smelled like a wild animal.

Not that Heathcliff cared, but the child knew nothing of books and writing; the curate refused to come to the house to teach him and not just because of Hindley. The last time the holy man had tried to enter the Heights Hareton had thrown rocks at him from the porch overhang, telling the righteous interloper to get the bloody hell gone. Heathcliff had a good laugh watching from his bedroom window as Joseph shouted at the boy, warning him that eternal damnation stalked him.

If he brought Hareton to Gimmerton in his current state, it would be an embarrassment to Hindley, which had its appeal, but Hareton was old Earnshaw's grandson and Cathy's nephew. Plus the skinny, neglected child reminded Heathcliff of another such child, and as much as he hated Hindley he could not bring himself to harm the boy, though he might threaten it for effect.

"Is she gone?" asked Hareton, stirring Heathcliff from his calculations.

"Gone?" asked Heathcliff. "Who?"

"That nothin' slut you brought here."

"Are you referring to your Aunt Isabella?"

"I am."

"Why do you call her that?"

"Joseph said."

"Did he? Well, Joseph is no position to judge. He wouldn't know a slut if one bit him on the butt."

"Is she not a nothin' slut, Heathcliff?"

"She is not, and you must call her Aunt Isabella. And yes, she is gone and will not be back."

"That's good."

"Why?" asked Heathcliff, truly curious.

"She couldn't even make a proper porridge," said the young boy, glaring back at Heathcliff.

"Can you make proper porridge?" asked Heathcliff with a keen glance.

"Nay, I cannot," whispered the boy, staring at his bowl.

"Would you like to learn?"

"I would."

"Excellent, Hareton. Poor Aunt Isabella, like all of your class, was reared to be helpless, but that will not happen to you. Will it, Hareton?"

Hareton looked to Heathcliff, his small face a clear reflection of his puzzlement.

"I only mean you will be able to get your own milk and porridge whenever you're hungry. You will not have to rely on servants."

"Yes, I may do as I please, when I please."

"Good, my bonny lad," said Heathcliff, standing. "Now, I'll teach you how to wash up after a meal. Here, take these dishes."

"Are you going off again today?" said the boy, following Heathcliff out to the water pump.

"I must go to Gimmerton. Bring over the basin."

"But Heathcliff," said Hareton, dragging a large round wooden tub over the ancient smooth stone pavers of the kitchen yard.

"What Hareton?" asked Heathcliff placing the dishes inside and covering them with water.

"Couldn't you stay here today?"

"I have pressing business."

"Oh…"

"But I'd appreciate the company of an associate."

"You would?"

"Indeed, but said associate must look presentable. Now run into the house and get a washcloth and towel."

Hareton made for the house, but stopped and returned to Heathcliff. "Where do I get those?"

"You don't know?"

"Would I ask if I did?" replied the surly boy, hands on hips.

"You have me there, child," grinned Heathcliff, who had to admit that he liked this kid. "Let's go have a look."

Hareton took hold of Heathcliff's coattails, following him so closely, he nearly tripped the young man. "Is something wrong, Hareton?"

"He may have risen."

"Is it of Hindley you speak or of Joseph?"

"Hindley."

"Don't fret, boy. I won't let him touch you, but refer to him as father to his face for your own sake. To me you may call him anything you wish."

"Can I call him a boat licker?"

"Now, where did you hear that?" asked Heathcliff, searching drawers and cabinets for cleaning cloths.

"Joseph."

"For a religious fanatic that man has a very nasty tongue."

"What is a fantic?"

"Fa-na-tic…hmmm…a zealot."

"Like in the Bible?"

"I think I'd better find a washer woman," said Heathcliff, ignoring the question.

"That bollocks, Hindley, ran the last one off."

"Bollocks?" laughed Heathcliff.

"Indeed."

"Do you even know what that word means?"

"I do."

"What then?"

"Bull testicles," laughed the boy.

"Bollocks is a term not limited to the testicles of a bull. It can mean those of any animal."

"Really? Then I will have to think about what sort of bollocks Hindley is."

"I've often contemplated that very question myself," said Heathcliff, pulling some old towels from a kitchen drawer. "These will have to do; they're not that clean, but they're the best I can find."

The two set off for the kitchen garden where Heathcliff taught Hareton how to do dishes. With their work complete, they carried the clean tableware to the house, and put everything away, after which Heathcliff showed Hareton how to wipe the table and sweep the floor.

"There now, if you wish, we shall meet for breakfast every morning at four; I shall cook and you will clean up," said Heathcliff.

"How is it you know the way of so many things, Heathcliff?" asked Hareton, awed.

"I've learned a great deal in my travels through this life."

"When will you teach me to milk Angelina?"

"When's she due for her next milking?"

"Evening."

"Alright, then this evening it is."

"But what of Joseph?"

"As I recall that old fart is not much of a milker; cows hate him. Can you blame them?"

Hareton laughed very hard, choking out the words 'old fart' and 'not much of a milker'.

"Wha's this? What art ye showin' ta yung master?" called Joseph, climbing down the ladder from his garret. "Yer ways will lead him to his undoin."

Hareton took one look at the old manservant, and fell to the floor in hysterics. Heathcliff could not suppress a smile; that could have been him ten years ago, reacting to Cathy's observations on the old manservant.

"Ye art a nottin, just as afore. I'll warn the master of ye."

"You do that, Joseph. I shall be teaching the lad to milk Angelina this evening so leave her for us."

"Yoo'll be doin' no such t'ing."

"Yes, I shall. And by the way she's already had her morning milking."

"Ha' ye stole ta milk, den? Ta master'll be sendin for the magistrate, ye thiven…"

"The milk's put up in the cold room, and there's porridge and coffee on the hearth. Shall we make ready to head for Gimmerton, Hareton?"

"Ta Gimmerton?" asked the old crank.

"Yes, Heathcliff," said Hareton, climbing to his feet as he succumbed to another fit of giggling.

"Ye'll go no place with tha' un, yung master. He's ta devil's own," warned Joseph, squinting at the young boy.

"Stop telling me what to do, Joseph," said Hareton, squinting back. "Ye are not the boss of me."

"Is that how ye talk to yer elder?"

"Keep it down both of you," interrupted Heathcliff. "I hear Hindley stirring."

Joseph and Hareton, their eyes wide with terror, turned to Heathcliff as one. Words were unnecessary, the young man knew their thoughts, neither wanted to witness one of Hindley's violent drunken rampages; best let him sleep.

Grumbling under his breath, Joseph focused his squinty gaze on Heathcliff for a few moments and then ambled to the cupboard, taking a cup and bowl. Hareton looked up to Heathcliff, reaching for his hand.

"Come lad, you can't go to town like that. Have you got another suit?"

"Nay."

"Are you sure?"

"Nay."

"Let's have a look in your room. Your clothes need changing."

"I have to change my clothes?" whined Hareton.

"And bathe."

Heathcliff heard Joseph snigger. "T'will be the 'pocalips afor ye get that un to touch soap and water."

"Quiet old man," said Heathcliff. "Or it will be you who prepares the bath."

"Bath?" whispered Hareton, his voice shaky as if he had been asked to face a firing squad.

"Ta lit'l master's like a cat when comes to warter," cackled Joseph.

"Indeed, Hareton…a bath," said Heathcliff. "Do not make me warn you again, Joseph."

"I'll not go then."

"Your choice. I'll see you tonight," said Heathcliff mounting the stairs two at a time as he made for his bedroom. He could hear the patter of feet following him, so, though he'd already groomed, he decided to set an example. After unbuttoning his shirt, he poured water into the wash basin and washed up while Hareton spied through the slightly open door.

"Might I come in, Heathcliff?"

"You might."

"Must I bathe and change?"

"Yes."

"But you said you would protect me."

"And I meant it; you may stay in this room while I'm gone. Hindley won't enter; there's a ward upon it."

"Was this your bedroom when you were a boy?"

"It was until your Grandfather died; then your father sent me to a third story garret."

"Were you alone like me?"

"No, I shared the room with your Aunt Cathy. The best girl ever."

"You mean Aunt Catherine who went to heaven?"

"She did not go to heaven!" growled Heathcliff. "That is bullshit."

The boy looked startled, but recovered quickly. "Did she go to hell, then, as Joseph said?" he whispered in fear.

"She did not!" said Heathcliff, crossing the room to sit on an antique chair that stood beside an open lattice. He pushed the window all the way open, and, crossing his arm on the sill, he rested his chin on his forearm, staring solemnly out on the moor as tears filled his eyes.

"Where did she go then, Heathcliff?"

"To the high moor where she waits for me."

"For you? Are you going to die too?"

"Yes, someday. We all die, Hareton, that is our only passport out of this abyss."

"Please don't die."

"Hareton…" Heathcliff considered the boy's words. This child actually cared whether Heathcliff lived; he might be the only one in this world. No, there was one other who cared, but she wished for his death so they might be together.

"Please," cried the boy, weeping too.

Heathcliff ran his hand over the boy's dirty hair. It would be a long time before circumstances would allow him to rest at Cathy's side, in the meantime…"I won't; not until you are a man."

"Promise?"

"I make you a solemn pledge," said Heathcliff, standing to button his shirt.

"Can I go to the high moor too when I die?"

"I don't know; the high moor is for those who have experienced such grave and unwarranted suffering at the hands of the righteous, that they no longer understand the difference between the virtuous and the sinful," said Heathcliff, putting on his vest. "Strangely, I don't wish that on you."

"I don't know what that means."

"Hopefully you never will."

"Must you go to town?"

"I must; are you sure you will not accompany me?"

"Nay."

Heathcliff took his long riding cloak from the old clothes press and, pulling it on, crossed the room, but he stopped at the door. "I've an idea."

"What?"

"Your Aunt Cathy and I had a secret place where we hid our treasures; perhaps they are still there."

"Where?"

With Hareton right behind him, Heathcliff threw open Cathy's closet which to his surprise, still held some of her childhood garments. Heathcliff took a green scarf from the door hook, holding it to his heart, and remembering the last winter she had worn it.

"Heathcliff? Are you sad again? Do you miss her?"

"Hareton," replied Heathcliff, stuffing the scarf in his pocket. "Let's not speak of it."

"What games did you and Aunt Catherine – er, Cathy play?"

"The usual things…ah, but Cathy could tell a story." Heathcliff went to the back of the closet and knelt, prying the shoe molding from the wall, and pulling up a loose floor board.

"Would you tell me one?" inquired the boy, eagerly.

"Later, come here."

Hareton knelt beside him.

"Well? Anything look good to you?" asked Heathcliff.

"Oh yes…Are all these toys yours?" smiled Hareton. He picked up a marble, rolling it between his fingers, and then took a carved soldier, marching it around on the floor.

"Indeed, mine and Cathy's. We hid them from your father and Joseph. You may stay in my room and play with them, but you must hide them when you are done. Watch." Heathcliff showed Hareton how to put everything back as it had been. "They've stayed hidden all these years; keep it that way."

"I make you a solemn pledge, Heathcliff."

"I must go, but I'll return before milking."

Once again Heathcliff crossed the room for the door, but again he stopped, remembering something. "Hareton, last night a dry gale blew and it was the dark of the moon. How did you make your way about the moor?"

"I took a lantern."

"You must not do that anymore. You might have caused a fire."

"Oh, not to worry Heathcliff. The lantern flame blew out as soon as I reached the upper moor."

"But how did you find your way?"

"I followed a ball of light; the fairies sent it – they do that for bairns lost on the moor."

"Do they? I'd not heard that one."

"Indeed. You know so much, Heathcliff. How is it you missed such common knowledge?"

"You've caught me out, Hareton."

"I did; didn't I?" laughed the boy.

"Tell me Hareton; where did the light lead you?"

"T'is a secret."

"Even from me?"

"I guess I can tell you, but you must promise not tell Joseph."

"You have no worries there."

"It showed me to a cave full of treasures; there was a waterfall and the sound made me tired so I slept there for a little while. I had an amazing dream that I did not want to wake up from."

"A dream?"

"About a boy and a girl who raced a black horse across the moor - Hindley chased them, but they laughed at him. I would like to be like them, but I'm a coward; I'm afraid of Hindley."

"You are no coward. Would a coward go about the moor in the middle of the night?"

"The moor seemed safer than the Heights, what with Hindley so drunk last night."

"That is no longer true; I shall stop Hindley. How did you get home?"

"The light led me home."

"Will you show me the cave?"

"You wish to see it?"

"Indeed I do."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

Deep in thought Heathcliff walked to the stables; he took Cathy's scarf from his pocket, tying it around his neck. Was the light Cathy? Did she protect her nephew in death as she failed to do in life?

* * *

><p>Heathcliff's song comes from the Hé-de Wa-chi - An Omaha Festival of Joy.<p> 


	4. Of Contracts and Marbles

**For the definition of fee tail see the end of the chapter.  
><strong>

**Chapter Four: Of Contracts and Marbles,**  
><strong>Heathcliff Befriends Hareton, Part 2 - Being a midmorning of the same day described in chapter three.<br>**by Ivy Rangee**  
><strong>

"Mister Heathcliff, I wasn't expecting you," said Solicitor Green, jumping up from behind his desk and running to the outer office where he held the door for Heathcliff. "Doctor Kenneth said you've been quite unwell."

"I've no time for niceties, Green; I'm due back at the Heights by milking time, and I've other business to see to," replied Heathcliff, removing his cloak and handing it to the solicitor. "Are the contracts ready?"

"But, Sir…I wasn't expecting…"

"Is there a problem, Green?"

"No… no, Sir. Please, take a seat in my office; I'll be there directly."

Heathcliff strode toward the solicitor's office, stopping in its doorway to assess the chaos. Shelves stuffed with thick, dusty tomes lined two walls. Every flat surface, including Green's large desk and a long, narrow table pushed against the far wall was covered several layers deep with documents. In a sliver of light that entered through the narrow back window, floated more dust moats then could ever be counted, even if every demon from hell sat occupied with the task. The stale, moldy odor was more than he could bear, and so it was that Heathcliff took it upon himself to air the place; next time, Green would come to the Heights.

Heathcliff threw open the back window and then crossed the room, flinging wide the lattice that overlooked an alleyway. Needing a breath of fresh air, he leaned out the window, enjoying the gusty wind that ruffled his hair as it drove down the breezy alley. He took a moment to survey his surroundings, noticing a group of boys playing in the warmth of the sun by the boardwalk at the front of the building. They'd draw an off kilter circle to play capture. Now, having determined the turn order and lined up their marbles, they commenced an intense, contentious game, only to be interrupted by Green's scrivener, who gave one of the boys a coin, apparently sending him on an errand. The designated lad grabbed the hand of a much smaller child and dragged him along as the scrivener shooed the rest away.

"Mister Heathcliff?" called Solicitor Green.

As Heathcliff turned back to the stifling office, the breeze followed him, sending papers flying about in little whirlwinds. The solicitor gave a strangled oath and then scurried about like a flustered hamster shutting windows.

"Please do not open the windows in my office, Sir. My filing system cannot bear it; then, too, we have delicate matters to discuss, and I'm sure you do not wish to be overheard."

"Have you news then?"

"Would you care for tea or coffee, Mr. Heathcliff?"

"No, I do not care for tea or coffee; I'm here to conduct business. Now tell me what you have found out."

"Mister Earnshaw is in need of a substantial sum; his drinking and gambling have left him in serious debt," said Green, as he picked up more papers, and, after a glance, walked about the room placing them on their proper piles.

"I hope you are not billing me for this, Green, because what you're telling me is common knowledge," frowned Heathcliff, picking up a chair and carrying it to the lattice, which he opened just a sliver before sitting down.

"Yes, Sir, er, no Sir…I went to him with the details of your offer, as you requested, but he threw me out, telling me he'd get a loan from his brother-in-law, Edgar Linton."

"He went to Linton?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Did he give you any hint of Linton's terms?"

"Mister Earnshaw did not, but Mister Linton called me to the Grange the next day."

"And?"

"Mister Linton is my client; I may not divulge our conversation. However, I can say that Mister Linton covets the Heights, and, that I used my influence to guide him in a way that will benefit you."

"I shall make it worth your while," laughed Heathcliff with delight, wondering when Edgar Linton would realize that Heathcliff owned Green. On his death bed, just as he drew his last breath, would be ideal.

"Then too, I must do what is in the best interest of Mister Earnshaw since I'm his solicitor as well."

"Get on with it, man!"

"I'm afraid that you will think me unethical. It is just that you are an excellent client, and I wish to keep you satisfied."

"I wouldn't do business with you if I thought you ethical. I have no such delusion; that is why I sought you out for this very delicate matter."

"Mister Heathcliff…let me explain it this way. You are by far my most important client."

"Enough said…back to Hindley Earnshaw."

"Yes, well, Mister Earnshaw sent for me so I might explain Mister Linton's terms and conditions to him."

"And?"

"Poor Mister Earnshaw, Mister Linton has made him quite miserable."

"Miserable is he? Good man, Green, you've made my day," said Heathcliff, opening the lattice just a scosh more. He smiled broadly, and then closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of fresh air as it whistled down the alley born upon the spring wind.

"Indeed, Mister Linton wants Penistone Cottages as collateral for the loan, which, may I say, is a pittance in comparison to what you have offered."

"Is it now?"

"Oh dear, yes, barely enough to get Mister Earnshaw out of his current troubles. Then again there's the interest rate…exorbitant…not to mention the term," said Green, getting on his knees to retrieve a sheaf of papers that had blown under his desk.

"Get to the point."

"The two haggled for a week; then two days ago Mister Earnshaw came into my office to discuss your more generous loan offer."

"Green!"

"I can see you care nothing for the details," replied Green, standing with some difficulty. He pulled a chair to his desk where he sat sorting through a large stack of wind blown paper. "In short, we have a deal. "

"You are wrong, Green, I care very much about the details, but only as they pertain to contracts. Close attention must be paid; otherwise the worm might wriggle from my grasp."

"Oh my, the time, I'm sorry Mister Heathcliff, but I must leave the office to see to a small matter, and while I do, please look over these maps to decide what piece of the Heights you'll take as collateral. I'll return shortly."

Heathcliff took the maps with undisguised glee.

"You might consider Penistone cottages, Mister Heathcliff."

As soon as Green left, Heathcliff opened the lattice the rest of the way, and then took a seat behind Green's desk, spreading the property maps before him and considering which section of the Heights to take as collateral. Green had suggested Penistone cottages, where tenant farmers and local mill workers rented. Taking the cottages out from under Edgar Linton had great appeal, but the substantial income from that section of the property would be applied to the mortgage, paying it off much too quickly. And it was Heathcliff's greatest desire to squeeze Hindley and watch him writhe. No, he would take the crags and its pasturelands, first. It would have a dual advantage; he could charge Hindley rent for pasturing his sheep on his own land, and since Hindley, due to his extravagance, was cash poor, the rent would have to be added to the mortgage. Too, Heathcliff loved that section of the Heights best.

"Here are the contracts," said Solicitor Green, bustling into the room, waking Heathcliff from his meditation. "Have you decided what you will take as collateral?"

"I've marked it on map B."

"The crags? But why?"

"I value it. Besides the rents on the cottages bring a good income which will count toward the mortgage, and I don't want the loan paid off too quickly."

"There's little likelihood of that happening," laughed Green. "The rents are applied less expenses, maintenance and taxes. A clever manager will make sure there is not a penny left to put to the mortgage."

"Indeed?"

"That is how it is done, Mister Heathcliff; in fact that is how old Earnshaw came into possession of the cottages."

"So he did," whispered Heathcliff, vaguely recalling the land grab.

"Do you wish to read the contracts?" said the solicitor, handing them to Heathcliff.

"Of course, I never sign any document I have not read and thoroughly digested."

"But…"

"Give me a pen and some ink so I might mark them up for errors," said Heathcliff with a demented grin. "Writing truly binding contracts takes both craft and art, Green. Let's get to work."

"But Mister Heathcliff, I'm due home for lunch," complained Green, backing away.

"Go along, I'll be here when you return."

"Yes, Sir," said the solicitor, his voice betraying worry.

"What is wrong, Green? Do I not pay you enough for your services?"

"No, Sir…I mean, yes, Sir. You have been most generous, but you are not in a position to understand contract law."

"Am I not? Why would you make that assumption?" asked Heathcliff with an innocent smile.

"Well you grew up a…" Green stopped talking; he seemed to be chocking on something as his face turned a florid purple.

"An ignorant, heathen plow boy?" smirked Heathcliff.

"Er…ahg…" said Green, sounding like a frog taking its last breath.

"Do you need a physician? You seem to be apoplectic."

"No Sir," whispered the man. "I am quite well; I apologize."

"I am very familiar with contract law, Green, having read several tomes on the subject," replied Heathcliff, his tone menacing.

"B…but that is not the same as reading for a law degree."

"Said like a true law professor," snapped Heathcliff, his expression lighthearted and innocent once more.

"Sir?"

"Go along; take your time. I'll be here when you return. And don't forget that other thing," said Heathcliff, absently, already commencing work on the contracts, as he struck a line here or a paragraph there.

"Yes, Sir."

In trance-like concentration, Heathcliff worked diligently, losing all track of time; contracts enthralled him with their power to foretell the future. That is why he took such great care with them; they must cover all he desired and produce the proper effect. So it was that deep in the future, he did not notice Solicitor Green's return.

"The wife sends you lunch," said the harried solicitor, returning the office lugging two baskets, one in each hand.

Looking up from the second contract, Heathcliff viewed the man with surprise; hadn't he just left? "That was fast; I said you might take your time."

"I did; it's been two hours. Come, help yourself," said Green, offering him a basket.

Though he'd lacked an appetite since learning of Cathy's illness, at this moment, he had to admit intense hunger; perhaps plotting revenge did him good. Then again the work of contracts always made him ravenous.

"The missus sends her thanks to you for recommending we call on Nellie Dean to nurse our boys when the lads were down with fever. That and she saw you this morning on your way here – she says you look positively wasted."

"Say what you will about Nellie, she nursed me from the brink of death when I contracted measles."

"Is… is it the loss of your missus that's got you starving yourself?" asked Green, nervously.

"Green…"

"Sorry, Sir, none of my business."

"I'm glad we see eye to eye," said Heathcliff, opening the basket and taking out a meat pie. It smelled of cloves and allspice - his favorites. "Is all this for me?"

"She said to take whatever you don't eat to the Heights for later; just bring the basket back next time you come to the office."

"Give your wife my regards," said Heathcliff, taking a bite. He rolled his eyes with sensual delight at the pie's spicy buttery taste; Missus Green was a first rate cook, which brought his thoughts spiraling back to Isabella, who couldn't boil water without setting the house on fire. "Green?"

"Yes, Mister Heathcliff?"

"What is the gossip?" asked Heathcliff, as he took another meat pie, and brought it to his nose, deeply inhaling the delightful, cleansing smell of cloves. What a rare and pleasing delicacy. Unfortunately, no cook would accept employment at the Heights; thus the fare was simple and for the most part completely bland, which did not bother him, but in his time away from the Heights he'd grown to love spicy food so this basket pleased him.

"Gossip?"

"In regard to Mrs. Heathcliff and me."

"But…you said…"

"What are the villagers saying, Green?" demanded Heathcliff, wolfing down the pie.

"Well, there's a large faction says she came to her senses when she ran from a demon like you – er – sorry, Sir," said Green, his pale eyes darting back and forth in fear.

"No offense taken; go on, Green."

"But there's another group of equal size says you got the luck when that baggage took her leave."

"Baggage?"

"Sorry Mister Heathcliff, but your missus is not well thought of in Gimmerton."

"Why, Solicitor Green?" asked Heathcliff, leaning forward with interest.

"Well, she offended most everyone with her high and mighty ways, didn't she?...Sorry again, Sir."

"Does that cover all the gossip?"

"No, sir."

"Get on with it," ordered Heathcliff. He leaned back in Green's chair, placing his boots on the solicitor's desk, and, after stretching gracefully like a great silky cat, he rubbed his belly, realizing he'd eaten too much too soon after breaking his long fast.

"There's a small group says the two of you are up to something. But I warned them off such gossip. Ridiculous, isn't it, Sir?"

"Indeed, it is, Green. Indeed it is. You are clever to squelch that sort of talk. I shall have to show my appreciation."

"Thank you, Sir. Have you finished with those contracts?"

"I have; recopy them with the changes I've indicated, and then bring them to the Heights for Mister Earnshaw to sign. I'll need two bank checks for the agreed upon amounts."

"When, Sir?" asked Greene, gathering the heavily edited contracts.

"As soon as they're done," said Heathcliff, just as the other basket made mewling sounds. "Ah, is that the other issue we discussed?"

"It is, Mister Heathcliff."

"Good, now I must get on my way," said Heathcliff, standing and making for the door, but he was brought up short by the sudden clamor of a gang young boys arguing in the alley outside the solicitor's open window.

"Scrivener Bartleby, call the constable on that lot. I've warned them not to play in my alleyway," shouted Green.

"I'd prefer not to, Sir," answered the laconic scribbler, scratching away like a hen at the ground.

"Hold on, Green," said Heathcliff, who thought he recognized one of the childish voices. "I'll break this up; no need to involve the constabulary."

"But, Mister Heathcliff," said the solicitor, who looked as if he'd inhaled a very bad odor.

"Come, man. What if one of them is yours?" said Heathcliff, making his way briskly out the door and crossing the boardwalk to the alleyway.

"They're a lot of knackers; my boys would never associate with them," replied Green, hot on Heathcliff's heels.

"Boys will be boys, Solicitor Green, no matter their station. And I despise snobbery. Remember that!"

In the shadowy alley, several ragged boys wrestled one other child, who fought them like a fierce, cornered fox. The lad even growled. When Heathcliff separated them, that fox turned into Hareton Earnshaw.

"You," said Heathcliff, pointing at one of the boys as he suppressed a grin. "What's your name? And what is in dispute?"

"My name's Fitheal (Fee-hal) Ward, but I'm called Fee, and that boy stole all our marbles!" said the lad, with great indignation, as he indicated the thief, Hareton Earnshaw.

"And who is he?" asked Heathcliff, trying to look stern while he fished for information.

"The son of that drunkard, Mister Earnshaw."

"How did it come about that young Mister Earnshaw, here, took all your marbles?"

"In a game, it was," said Fee Ward, his dirty face red with anger. "What else would it be? He's too small and stupid to steal from the likes of us!"

"So he won them fair and square?" asked Heathcliff, frowning to cover his true feelings.

"Nay, he told us he'd never played before, so we let him go first, but he must have played for he took every marble," continued Fee, angrier still.

"Is this true, Mister Earnshaw?" said Heathcliff, turning to Hareton.

"It is," answered Hareton, crossing his arms in defiance.

"And you've never played this particular game before?"

"Nay!" said Hareton, with a stomp of his foot.

"Then how is it you won so easily?" asked Heathcliff, continuing his interrogation.

"I said the truth; I've never played their stupid game."

"That's not what I asked you."

"They never asked about my marbles shootin' skills."

"Earnshaw's a cheat!" shouted four of the boys, but one, the smallest, only watched, with huge tears in his innocent blue eyes.

"Quiet down," said Heathcliff, his deep voice rumbling over the younger, higher voices.

"Nay, I'm no cheat," shouted Hareton. "You did not ask me how good I am; you only asked if I'd had played that dumb game before."

"Listen to me, the lot of you, and do as I say" said Heathcliff in his sternest, most adult voice, which succeeded in grabbing their attention. "Mister Earnshaw will follow me; the rest of you wait here. Solicitor Green, make sure none leave; they will be sorry if they do."

Heathcliff led Hareton into Solicitor Green's office. "Sit down, Hareton."

"I won 'em fair and square, Heathcliff! I did!"

"I do not doubt your skill; I've never seen a boy with better aim."

"Really?"

"Indeed, but where did you get the marbles to start the game?" inquired Heathcliff, taking a seat at Green's desk.

"Marbles?"

"That is what I said."

"I used yours."

"After I said to put everything away?" Heathcliff tried to sound suitably indignant.

"I did as you said, but I forgot the marbles were in my pocket until long after I'd made up my mind to follow you."

"I see. Let's have a look at your winnings."

Beaming with pride, Hareton pulled a handful of marbles from one of his waistcoat pockets. They were of all types from brightly colored glass to earthy clay.

"Is that all?" asked Heathcliff, severely.

"I've about the same in the other pocket."

"How many in all?"

"Twenty-five."

"What is it you must do?" demanded Heathcliff. He wished to nip this in the bud, believing the boy to be already twisted by Hindley's example.

"Hide them away?" asked the child, hopefully.

"What is it I do when I win at gambling?"

"You give the money back."

"Indeed, I do."

"Why do you do that, Heathcliff? I've wondered," asked Hareton, raising his eyebrows. He twisted his head sideways as he gazed up at Heathcliff.

"Gambling's bad business, Hareton. It attracts dark moira; then again, like a stealthy bird of prey, gaming for money, has the power to sink its long claws into your head, holding you fast as you soar with it. By the time you wake up to the pain, it's too late; you crave the thrill of it even though it hurts. Best you return your winnings and appease the fates."

"But Hindley never does," frowned the boy.

"And he no longer wins, does he? His luck's used up."

"But I want to keep them."

"See, lad, the power's already got its claws into you. Do you wish to follow your father's path?"

"Nay, Heathcliff, nay! Never say that!" cried the boy, tears rising to his eyes. "I'd rather be struck dead!"

"Then you know what you have to do."

"Will you help me?"

"As you wish; then you may accompany me to the Heights. Did you ride your pony?"

"I did."

"Good, then you can help me carry these baskets."

"What's in them, Heathcliff?"

"Later, now come along; time to return those marbles, which, you must admit, you won by questionable means."

"Nay, t'were fair and square," affirmed Hareton, arms crossed, nose in the air.

"Are you sure?" Not waiting for an answer, Heathcliff returned to the boardwalk with Hareton in tow to find five rowdy young boys surrounding Solicitor Green, who threatened them with the magistrate if they didn't settle down.

"May we use your office to conduct this transaction, Solicitor Green?" asked Heathcliff.

"But, Mister Heathcliff…" huffed the poor, put-upon man.

"Thank you, Green. You boys, follow me, and mind you keep your hands to yourself. If I catch any of you disobeying me; I'll put a curse on your bloody marbles."

"You should not say such things, Mister Heathcliff," said Green, close on Heathcliff's heels. "There's already talk of your uncanny ways."

"Nellie Dean, no doubt," said Heathcliff, taking a seat at Green's desk. "Line up, boys; Mister Fitheal Ward, first. Mister Hareton Earnshaw, come stand at my side."

The scruffy young children did as requested, but it involved a great deal of cussing, pushing and shoving. Holding his hand to his forehead, like a man with a pounding head ache, Heathcliff watched the neglected, ragged lot and growled. As much as he tried to be hard as flint, he felt sorry for them.

"After Mister Ward, line up shortest to tallest, if I catch any of you out of order, I'll keep your damn marbles!" shouted Heathcliff, with his most commanding voice. This brought an almost instantaneous resolution to the struggle as Heathcliff turned to the solicitor. "Green, hand me the food basket."

"But, Sir…" cried the solicitor, indignantly.

Heathcliff glowered at him.

"Yes, Mister Heathcliff."

"Now, Mister Ward, how many marbles did you lose to young Earnshaw here?"

"Seven."

"That's a lie," shouted the other boys, including Hareton.

"Go to the back of the line and think about my warning, Mister Ward."

"But…" protested the boy. With a fearful scowl, Heathcliff pointed to the end of the line, and the boy obeyed, dragging his feet as he made his way.

"Next!" shouted Heathcliff.

A very small boy, obviously younger than the rest, stood before Heathcliff. A water course made of tears stained his dirty, troubled, little face. Heathcliff rolled his eyes, wondering what the bloody hell the fates were playing at.

"Your name, young man?" he asked softly, unable to be harsh with the child.

"Oithsin," he lisped.

"Oisin (pronounced O - sheen), what's the rest of your name, lad?"

"Juths Oithsin," said the little one, whose head barely cleared the top of the desk.

"How old are you, Mister Oisin?"

"He don't know, Mister Heathcliff, he's a bastard born on the road," offered Fitheal Ward.

Heathcliff knew without a doubt the fates toyed with him as he looked into the innocent, hungry eyes of this pitiful waif. "Well Mister Oisin, how many marbles?"

"One," said the tiny lad, holding up a finger. "Iths a blue glasth one; iths got a chip."

"A chip? Then how does it roll?" asked Heathcliff, suppressing hysteria.

"Not vewy wewl," said the sad, little tow-head.

The poignant answer brought a slight smile to Heathcliff's face, but, in truth, he found himself deeply moved by this poor child's condition. "You boys let this young man play with a bockety marble? You couldn't spare him a single undamaged marble?"

"But he loves that marble, Mister Heathcliff; his elder brother, my best friend, died last winter of fever, and he left it to Oisin in his last will and testament," explained Fee Ward.

"I see," said Heathcliff, glaring at Green. "That marble is more precious then gold."

"Yeths, Mithser Heathcwiff," nodded Oisin, obviously pleased that someone understood.

"What does your mother do, young man?"

"His Mum's a washer woman, Mister Heathcliff," interjected Fee Ward.

"You must take me to her; we're in need of one at the Heights."

"Yeths, Thsir," said Oisin, staring at the big blue marble in Hareton's hand.

"But Sir…the woman's was abandoned here with her pack of bairns by a gang of travelers! Even they thought her trash," said Green.

"Did I ask for your counsel, Green? Well, Hareton, give the lad his marble," said Heathcliff, looking through the food basket.

"Here," said Hareton, placing the treasured marble in the boy's tiny hand.

"Come, here, Mister Oisin," said Heathcliff, handing the child a small meat pie. "Be quiet, and sit under the window yonder. You may eat your pie, but take care not to gobble it or you'll fall ill."

Yeths, Thsir." Hunger apparent in his large eyes, Oisin made his way to the appointed spot where he sat cross legged, carefully placing his marble in his tattered coat pocket. With his tiny fingers he broke off a small piece of pie and stuffed it in his mouth where it lodged in his cheek giving him the look of a lopsided chipmunk.

"I'd like a pie, Heathcliff," said Hareton, frowning.

"When you've finished conducting your business," instructed Heathcliff.

Heathcliff watched as Hareton rushed through the rest of his transactions, apparently hunger drove him for when each boy had received his due, Heathcliff gave said boy a meat pie as Hareton watched with obvious envy.

"Look here Heathcliff, four extra marbles!" said Hareton with delighted surprise.

"How mysterious! What will you do with them?" wondered Heathcliff with a stern gaze.

"Keep 'em?" guessed Hareton, halfheartedly.

"You don't think those marbles were meant for you; do you?"

"Nay," groaned Hareton, scuffing his shoe on the floor.

"How many marbles do you have from the Heights?"

"None - those are yours."

"Now they are yours; I give them to you."

"Where did you get all those marbles, Heathcliff?" asked Hareton, cocking his head to one side, a sly look in his eyes.

"Some I won from your father, and some are… were your Aunt Cathy's. I'm sure she'd be pleased if you took them."

"You didn't give them back to Hindley?" smirked the boy.

"You'll think me hypocrite, but no, I did not; however, I paid dearly for it. You may take it on faith that avarice is not worth the trouble. Now give those bloody marbles to Oisin!"

When Hareton had reluctantly done as ordered, Heathcliff handed him a meat pie, and the boy joined his gambling cronies on the dusty floor. By this time all had been forgiven, and the six young lads sat under the window enjoying their food, chatting and laughing quietly.

"Mister Heathcliff, I need my office back," begged poor Solicitor Green, who held the contracts Heathcliff had revised.

"When will you have the final copies?" said Heathcliff, pointing to the papers.

"Wednesday next."

"Excellent, we must strike quickly."

"But, Mister Heathcliff…"

"What is it, Green?" said Heathcliff, rising and making for the coatrack.

"While you busied yourself in my office, I read your changes. Are you sure Mister Earnshaw will accept your harsh provisions in the case of default? He refused such provisions when Mister Linton proposed them."

"From me he will."

"Do you not think your conditions a bit harsh?"

"Indeed, I do; but why would I lend him money otherwise?" asked Heathcliff with an innocent smile.

"It was old Earnshaw had me secure a fee tail. Do you have no qualms regarding your old guardian's wishes?"

"None whatsoever; the man brought me to this place, and then left me homeless and penniless under the guardianship of his son whom he knew despised me."

"I see your meaning, Sir," said Green, bowing his head and turning away.

"What is it, Green?" growled Heathcliff impatiently.

"Nothing, Sir," sighed Green. "I just wonder; are you sure it will hold up given your…?"

"Given my what – my lowly social status? A contract is a contract; it will hold," smirked Heathcliff, walking to the bookshelf and removing a huge black book, called _Common Recovery – Legal Fictions and the Removal of Fee Tails._ "Mister Hindley Earnshaw should not have made me wait. It gave me time to study my options."

"Common recovery is complicated and expensive."

"Have you no experience in this?"

"I have, but it is not for the faint of heart. And you will need to retain a barrister as well. It will cost you, dearly."

"Cost is not a problem, but it had better be done correctly, Green." With his most intimidating glare, Heathcliff fixed the man like an insect pinned to a display mount.

"Of…of course, Mister Heathcliff, the way you've written them - these contracts are ironclad. I'll just cross the T's and dot the I's. Ma…may I recommend a barrister?"

"I'll find a barrister with experience in common recovery and have him contact you."

"But what of the son? Are you sure Mister Earnshaw will not baulk at the possibility of losing the Earnshaw Estate for future generations?"

"Hindley has no choice. Then, too, the man's a coward; he does not possess the courage necessary to face the punishment his creditors would mete out."

"But the boy?"

"Do not fear for him; I shall look after his interests. And I'll not throw either of them out into the cold if that's what concerns you."

"But Mister Heathcliff, why not include a provision allowing the boy six months to pay the debt should his father meet an untimely end?"

"Did Mister Linton include such a provision?"

"Well…no. But that is different."

"How is it different?" asked Heathcliff, his eyes narrowing.

"Well…" began the solicitor with and audible gulp. "He's landed gentry; ain't he?"

"A so-called gentleman?"

"Not so-called; he is a gentleman."

"I do not understand – a gentleman may exclude the boy, but a plow boy may not? Do wish me to seek another solicitor, Green?"

"I do not, Sir, but please, I only ask that you consider what you are doing."

"If I do not loan Hindley Earnshaw the money, he will seek it elsewhere. Certainly whoever obliges him will insist that the fee tail be removed without condition; otherwise there is no true collateral."

"Of what you say there can be no doubt, but think about what you do to the lad."

"Worried about the lad, are you? In that case let me ask you, Solicitor. What has Hindley Earnshaw ever done for his son besides terrorize and neglect him?"

"You have me on all counts. But the land has been held by the Earnshaws for two hundred fifty years."

"And so it will be, as long as Mister Earnshaw pays his debt to me. Otherwise, I shall have the name Heathcliff carved into the lintel."

"And what is the likelihood of Hindley Earnshaw ever paying you back?"

"Absolute zero. And now I must be on my way; come, Hareton, let's take Oisin home."

"But why Heathcliff? I want to stay," whined Hareton.

"So we might make arrangements with his mother." Heathcliff stood, walking to the outer office for his cloak, followed closely by Solicitor Green.

"Ar-rain-what?" called Hareton after him.

"Arrangements – we need someone to wash our clothes and linens. And happily that is the service she provides."

"That's not all she provides," interjected the solicitor.

"Shut up, Green," said Heathcliff, pulling some coins from his pocket and placing them in the solicitor's outstretched hand. "This should more than compensate you for today's inconvenience; however, I expect a full accounting of your hours next I see you."

"Of, course, Sir," said Green with a bow. "You are most generous. Don't forget your baskets."

"Hareton!" said Heathcliff, retrieving the baskets from the inner office.

"Why can't we wear our clothes as they are, Heathcliff?" asked Hareton, smoothing his filthy blue velvet waistcoat.

Heathcliff shook his head. "Because it is not healthy to wear dirty clothes, likewise for remaining unwashed."

"Not healthy?"

"Indeed, the dirtier you are the more likely you are to get sick. Now come along. You too, Mister Oisin, bid your friends farewell."

"Juths Oisthin, Misther Heathcwiff," said the now-happy lad. With Hareton Earnshaw and Fin Ward on his heels, Oisin followed Heathcliff to the stables.

"Very well, Just Oisin," agreed Heathcliff.

"Now you got two names just like the rest of us," said Fin Ward, who herded Oisin along like a sheepdog maneuvering his herd.

"Yesth," laughed Oisin, clapping his hands, and then holding up two fingers.

"Why are you dragging along behind, Hareton?" asked Heathcliff, turning to the sulking boy. "Go and get your pony. Hurry along; we've a great deal to do before milking time."

Mention of the milking lesson had the desired effect as Hareton raced to the street. Meanwhile, Heathcliff saddled his horse under the watchful eyes of Fin and Oisin, who barraged him with questions regarding the animal's particulars which he answered while tying the two baskets to his saddle.

"You may ride my horse, Just Oisin," said Heathcliff, lifting the boy into the saddle. "I shall lead him."

"Mister Heathcliff?"

"Mister Ward?"

"His ma put Oisin in my care for the day. She'd be mighty flighted should I not bring him home. And it's just Fee."

"Well then climb on, and point the way, Just Fee," ordered Heathcliff, realizing he too was a member of the Just family.

"Justh Fee," laughed Oisin. "Like Justh Oisthin."

"Do you know, lads, in the Far Eastern land of Cathay that would make you family? For there the family name comes first and the given name second."

"Have ye been to such a place, Mister Heathcliff?" asked Fee, as Heathcliff led them to the road.

"Once or twice," said Heathcliff, searching for Hareton. "Hareton, what are you waiting for? Come along!"

"Will you tell us a story of Cathay?" asked Hareton, joining them at a trot.

"So you heard that?"

"I did. And that's not what I asked you," smirked the boy.

"Perhaps."

"Oh do, please," shouted the three boys in unison.

* * *

><p>A Fee Tail or entail on real property ensured that the land would be passed on to only hereditary heirs of the previous landholder. In this way the property could neither be transferred nor subdivided. This often left landholders cash poor since they could not borrow money using the property as collateral or sell it. In 16th Century England, legal means were established to get around this.<p> 


	5. Heathcliff's Tale

**Chapter Five: Heathcliff's Tale**  
>By Ivy Rangee<p>

_**You may wonder; is it possible? Would Heathcliff tell three boys a story? He is not known for storytelling and yet, his recounting of the Cathy's capture at Thrushcross Grange is not only articulate but engaging - see chapter seven. Or did Ellen Dean lie? Earlier in her narrative, she claims that Heathcliff is quiet and sullen, yet truthful. But Heathcliff's description of the Grange is spectacular– well, perhaps you should go back and read it. That is the trouble with gossip, isn't it? How to ferret out the truth from the lies. **_

_**This chapter picks up where chapter four left off – on the way to hire Oisin's mother, the laundress.**_

With Fin Ward and Oisin astride the saddle of his spirited blood horse, Heathcliff led the graceful animal down a narrow country lane that followed a gurgling stream. Flanking Heathcliff, on his shaggy brown pony, rode Hareton. Tender young leaves adorned the trees that lined either side of the lane, creating a pale, fuzzy green halo around the spreading branches. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, Heathcliff inhaled the mild, fragrant, spring air as a persistent breeze ruffled his dark hair. The zephyr's gentle, embracing warmth whispered a languid promise of the long summer days to come. Wishing its mild touch on his skin, Heathcliff removed his tie and opened the top three buttons of his shirt as he stopped suddenly, realizing this place seemed familiar. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, for as he gazed at the stream he thought he saw his Cathy wading in the water in search of tadpoles.

"Why are ye stopping, Heathcliff?" demanded Hareton.

Heathcliff shivered as her visage disappeared.

"Did ye see that doe over yonder? Drinking at the stream? Is that why ye stare, Mister Heathcliff?" asked Fin.

"Doe?" asked Heathcliff, coming back from his dream.

"Heathcliff," complained Hareton. "A story – a true account of yer travels - ye promised."

"A true account is it?" whispered Heathcliff, vaguely.

"Yes," commanded the three boys in unison.

"What do you mean by true?" asked the young man, pulling on his horse's reins as he continued down the lane.

"Something real," said Hareton, decisively.

"Hmmm … what is real?' wondered Heathcliff aloud, thinking perhaps he'd spent too much time in Asia. "Never mind, I shall recount a tale of Cathay, and its surrounds, but this tale is for your six ears only," cautioned Heathcliff, his deep, resonant voice taking possession of the children's attention. "Should I hear it spread across the countryside, you will never hear another tale from me. Agreed?"

The three boys nodded their heads earnestly.

"Well then, since we are in agreement, I shall begin. One fair morning, not terribly long ago, some comrades of mine and I, having commandeered a Cathayan sailing ship called a junk, made our way inland, up the infamous Yangtze River."

"But why, Heathcliff?" frowned Hareton. "Why go inland?"

"To see where it would lead. And it took us far indeed – a thousand miles, at least, until we finally could go no farther, for the river ended in a mighty waterfall of enormous power."

"So what did ye do?" asked Fee.

"We climbed the mountain from which the water fell."

"But why did ye not return by the river?" asked Hareton, incredulous.

"We had business on the high plateau above."

"Business?" said Hareton. "But ye said ye took the river just to see where it would lead."

"Did I say that?" wondered Heathcliff, scratching his chin. "Then it must be true."

"What business?" asked Fee.

"None of your business, Mister Ward."

"But Mister Heathcliff…" protested Fee.

"When we reached the top of that mountain an unparalleled view stretched before us, vast and extraordinary."

"What did ye sthee?" asked Oisin.

"A range of mountains, hundreds of them, stretching as far as the eye could see in three directions."

"What did ye do?" asked Fee. "Did ye return to yer boat?"

"Of course not, we sensed adventure, so we climbed down the other side of that mountain and up the next. Exhaustion plagued us, for every time we reached a mountaintop we had to march down again, since passing over that mountain range was the only way to reach our destination."

"Ye had a destination?" asked Hareton. "But ye said…"

"At the base of every mountain lay tropical swamps while every pinnacle lie in perpetual winter, and in between - every sort of weather imaginable, necessitating that we lug clothing and equipment for all climes.

"The extreme variety of conditions provided a habitat for every sort of creature from tiny insects to pesky rodents to mountain snow tigers. Worst of all were the leeches, some the size of sausages, and we learned the hard way to tie our mouths shut at night."

"Why did ye do have to that?" asked Oisin, whose eyes resembled an owl's.

"Many's the morning we woke to find ourselves covered in them head to toe. But one of my comrades suffered frightfully for, on awakening one morning, he found a large glittering, slimy black leech had lodged itself in the roof of his mouth."

"How did ye get it out?" asked Hareton.

"We had to shoot the poor man – put him out of his misery."

"Ye shot him?" screamed Fee.

"Of course not, don't be idiots; we removed it just as you would any leech."

"How is that?"

"A stiff shot of whiskey will cause it to detach. Remember that should you find yourselves in such a bind."

"We will," the three whispered.

"After weeks of hiking over those peaks that shown like diamonds, we struggled up to a vast grassy plateau at such a high elevation that not a tree could be seen, only shiny dark-green shrubs. The horizon stretched on forever under the vast dome of the heavens, and, in that place, the clear, brisk air rarely rested as we watched it move in waves across the tall yellow tasseled grass. Though the air was thin, I have never breathed fresher. And the deities of the vast sky rained their luminous blueness down on us, allowing us to see with great clarity for miles.

"We rested two days for some of my companions had trouble breathing due to the altitude. But once they adjusted, we set out; only to be surrounded a few miles later by the greatest horsemen I have ever encountered."

"There are none better than the English," pronounced Hareton with authority. "Ye speak heresy."

"Heresy is it? You have spent too much time with Joseph. And how would you know how well they rode?" asked Heathcliff. "You've never been past the Yorkshire border."

"I know the English are the best at everything!" said Hareton, stubborn as only the ignorant can be.

"Do you wish to hear my tale, Hareton?" asked Heathcliff as they reached a fork in the path. Heathcliff turned to Oisin, who pointed to the narrower trail to the left, which continued along the stream.

"I do."

"Then be still! Now, where was I?"

"Besthesth hrosthman ever," exclaimed Oisin.

"Ah, yes, well done Mister Oisin. Indeed, they could ride at a gallop while standing on the backs of their shaggy mounts. When hunting game, they used bows and arrows, maneuvering their horses with their knees. And, as the game went down, they swiftly rode to it, sliding down their saddles and sweeping it up at full speed. It was as if they and their horses were one."

"Wasth thosth horsthes like oursth?" asked the tiny, but very curious Oisin.

"Those mounts were much smaller and rounder than English horses, but just as stout-hearted and brave. Then too, their coats, manes and tails, though long and shaggy, shown like starlight. In fact their coats were so shiny that from a distance, as they grazed, they glowed like a herd of magic steeds come from the heavens to rest awhile upon the earth."

"Did ye ride one of these beasts, Mister Heathcliff?" asked Fee.

"I did, as the headman gifted me with a real beauty. I have never ridden another horse with such grace – present company excluded," said Heathcliff, patting his horse's muzzle. "When I looked into her eyes I knew I was in the presence of a deeply intelligent being."

"What wasth her name?" asked Oisin, another deeply intelligent being.

"Kharis."

"What happened to her?"

"It is not her story I wish to tell."

"Then whose?" demanded the impatient Hareton. "For by that oak yonder we are halfway there."

"You have been to Oisin's before?" asked Heathcliff.

"Once or twice … "

"For what reason?"

"Joseph preaches repentance to Oisin's mother."

"Ah … I see … the woman has my sympathy."

"What isth the sthtory about, Misther Heathcwiff?" asked Oisin.

"Not what, Mister Oisin, who - A boy, a strange, enchanted boy, who was born of our mother the earth."

"What do you mean?" frowned the dour Hareton.

"I mean he rose from the earth one day, a new born babe. The headman's mother and father watched it with their own eyes. They were on pilgrimage, for the headman's mother was with child, and they sought a blessing for a healthy birth from a local deity that governed such things. The headman's mother was far along, and his father helped her down a narrow path that led to the deity's secluded grotto. All went well until the mother tripped, falling to the ground and dragging her husband down with her, for she was not only with child but stout as well. It was then, as they sat on the hard rocky ground laughing, that they saw it was not a twig or a stone that had caused their fall but a tiny toe. In fear they rose to their knees, while the headman's mother wept for she believed the sight an ill omen, but as she cried the tiny toe was followed by a tiny foot and then a chubby belly, but a belly with no button. Instead this child had two buttons, one on each of his two little feet. Gradually, bit by bit, the infant rose from the ground until a tiny, fully formed baby boy rested in the tall yellow tasseled grass. And from that day forward that child could travel anywhere he desired by sinking into the earth and reappearing at his desired destination, which made keeping track of him very difficult.

"The headman, Bat, still a boy at the time, was made the babe's guardian – a difficult job indeed. For the child was full of energy and always wreaking havoc. But as the baby grew older he settled down, his temperament growing increasingly dour as time past, for the rest of the tribe shunned him, believing that Bat's mother and father had brought a demon to live among them."

"What was the boy's name?" asked Hareton.

"Hedatiwi."

"Wasth he a demon?" asked Oisin.

"I cannot answer that, but Bat told me the boy had power over animals, using them to gain information on the location of the tribe's enemies. This power saved Bat's nomadic band from attack time after time, and so it was the others accepted his presence, though few befriended him.

"What about the unborn babe?" asked Fee.

"I shall get to that in due time. Now, do not interrupt me again!"

"One day in midsummer, when Hedatiwi had reached the age of thirteen and Bat twenty, the band trekked over the rolling hills of that vast high plain to its northern region. There a great lake covered the land, and beyond the lake a lone blue mountain distinct for a cleft that separated its two soaring, snowy peaks. Every summer the nomads fished and gathered the valuable tiny, glimmering stones that lined the beaches of that crystal clear lake. On this particular day, while the children played in the water, their parents and older siblings caught and preserved fish. Alone on the sandy shore, Hedatiwi would not join in the work for in communion with the creatures of the lake, he had learned of the presence of naga, water spirits with snake like legs.

"Going to Bat's father, Hedatiwi warned the headman that homage must be paid to the King of the Naga or he would take a woman or a child, or maybe both. Now Bat's father did not hold with spirits and such – that is why he had no fear of Hedatiwi, believing nothing to be supernatural, and all phenomena the result of cause and effect, even if the reasons could not be discerned at the moment.

"'Fear not, Hedatiwi,' Bat's father said. 'Should the King of the Naga show himself we will make him welcome.'

"And no sooner did Bat's father speak those bloody words then the water began to roil and bubble as if it boiled from the intense heat of an underground fire, yet it was not hot. From the seething water rose a being, and it was none other than the Naga King himself. He towered to the heavens, and all stared in awe as they beheld his magnificence. From the waist up his well-muscled form resembled a human's, but along his back, up his neck and down the sides of his face shown iridescent silver-blue scales like those of marine serpents. His waist long black hair shown like the star filled heavens on the night of a new moon, and it flowed about him as if the wind blew, yet all was still."

Heathcliff squinted as he searched the faces of the three boys who were completely under his thrall. Thus he skipped not a beat, continuing immediately with his story.

"The king's eyes were of the deepest blue-green, but, instead of circles at their center, there were vertical slits. The women marveled at him, their desire clear in their sparkling, dark eyes, for Bat described this king as the handsomest being he'd ever laid eyes on. Noticing his admirers, a slow, confident smile graced the mighty king's apple red lips, revealing his sharp, pearly teeth. Several women swooned; and Bat said that nine months later a few strange and beautiful children were born to the tribe."

"Were they bastards like Oisin, Mister Heathcliff?" asked Fee.

"I do not know, perhaps it was coincidence or it may have been the king's magical powers. It is of no consequence, so do not interrupt me with such trivialities, Mister Ward."

"No consequence … but my papa says …"

"On my journeys I have encountered much, Mister Ward, and this I have learned: when it comes to a crisis, the nature of your birth, race or class have no bearing. I have seen those from the upper classes crumble into the most heinous of cowards, and those of low birth shine forth like the noble knights of old."

"You did, Misther Heathcwiff?" asked Oisin.

"I did, Mister Oisin. Do wish to hear more of my story?"

"We do," said the three lads in unison.

"Hedatiwi rushed to the shore, falling to his knees and bowing low, as he motioned to the others to do the same.

"'Mighty King Shehsha," said Hedatiwi. 'We are honored by your presence.'

"'Honored by _my_ presence?' boomed the king. 'This place belongs to me; I retire here in the summer. By what authority do you fish the waters of my summer domain?'

"'But … we always …' stuttered Bat's foolish father, for no one in his right mind argues with the Naga King.

"'Hush,' whispered Hedatiwi to the headman. 'Let me handle this.'

"'Do not hush me, boy,' replied Bat's father. 'I'm in charge here.'

"'Be silent!' shouted King Shehsha. 'These waters are mine. If you have used them before without permission then you owe me even greater tribute.'

"Hedatiwi frowned at the headman while the foolish fellow rubbed his ears in pain for when King Shehsha raised his voice mountains trembled. Conceding to the boy, the headman waved to Hedatiwi, indicating that he should take over the negotiations.

"'As you say, Your Majesty, we owe you a great debt of gratitude, for we would starve without the fish from your lake,' praised Hedatiwi. 'What sort of tribute did you have in mind?'

"'My jewel has been stolen.'

"'Jewel?'

"'Are you deaf? I can speak louder.'

"'I heard you well, King of the underworld. I merely speculated on which jewel.'

"'I would speak with you alone, boy. You seem to be the only intelligent being in this motley lot,' said the king, beckoning Hedatiwi to approach.

"'As you wish, King Shehsha,' answered Hedatiwi, walking to the shore.

"'Hold a moment,' said the king, raising his hand. 'Who is that lovely child?'

"With those words the king moved rapidly to the shore where he reached down and touched the earth with his forefinger, where upon his luminous form immediately transformed into that of a very tall human male. He moved gracefully over the sandy beach, seeming to float, as he made his way to one of the clan's adolescent girls. With horror Hedatiwi watched for the girl turned out to be none other than Bat's little sister, Chabi. The very child for whom Bat's parents had sought a blessing on that day long ago when they'd found Hedatiwi, rising from the earth. She had been born the very next night by a full moon. Having grown up as playmates, Hedatiwi loved Chabi with all his heart, wishing to take her as his wife when he reached manhood. And he was not alone in his affection; everyone loved her for she glowed with a generous, vibrant spirit.

"'What is your name?' asked King Shehsha, when he reached the bedazzled girl.

"'I…' Chabi whispered, barely able to speak as she gazed into the king's eyes. For she, like everyone who beheld him at that moment, watched enraptured as he floated above them, his eyes gleaming with wild vitality while his silky black hair waved in an undetectable breeze, modestly encircling his magnificent body in lieu of clothing.

"'Your name!' he commanded, flashing a brilliant, savage, condescending, yet utterly irresistible smile.

"'Do not speak your name!' shouted Hedatiwi.

"King Shehsha waved his hand gracefully at Hedatiwi and then repeated. 'Your name!'

"Hedatiwi tried to shout again, but the king's gesture had rendered him mute. Thus Hedatiwi was forced to reveal his ability. Closing his eyes and sinking into the earth he rose within the blink of an eye behind Chabi, covering her mouth so she could not speak. The king's eyes widened for a moment as he fixed Hedatiwi with a paralyzing gaze, and then, with a wave of his hand, he captured both Hedatiwi and Chabi in a spinning vortex, after which the king moved rapidly to the lake where he resumed his previous gigantic form.

"Once in the water, King Shehsha reached down and picked up the vortex, holding it in the palm of his hand as he sank into the lake. The force and speed of the shift to the naga spirits' world rendered Hedatiwi senseless and, when he woke, it was to the sounds of murmuring and laughter. Sitting up, he found himself in a momentous hall.

"Hedatiwi, having grown up as a nomad, had never seen anything like it. Above him, shimmering like a rainbow, the ceiling was lit by thousands of soft, little tapers held in place by the numberless crystal and silver chandeliers. The walls, covered with pale iridescent damask, caught the many colors, subtly reflecting them. On the floor lay a rug the color of a clear aqua sea and, when Hedatiwi stood, his bare feet sunk into the deep, silky, soft pile. The chairs and tables were of pale shining wood, carved with beautiful geometric deigns, and covered in blue-green silk.

"'Ah, Hedatiwi, you've finally risen,' called a beautiful blue boy and beside that gleaming boy stood Chabi.

"'Who are you?' asked our hero.

"'It's King Shehsha,' laughed Chabi. 'Don't you recognize him?'

"'You've told him our names?'

"'Indeed, Hedatiwi, without your meddling Chabi is very cooperative,' said the king, stroking Chabi's hair.

"'Chabi, how could you?'

"'You need not fear the king. He's wonderful! Look at what he made.'

"When Hedatiwi walked to the place where they played the reason for Chabi's enthusiasm became clear. The Naga King had fashioned miniature animals of all types and sizes from clay. Chabi merely had to whisper her commands, and the animals sprang to life, doing whatever she requested.

"'I would speak with you alone, Hedatiwi,' ordered King Shehsha, growing in size.

"'Don't you ever get confused about who you are – changing your form all the time?' frowned Hedatiwi, crossing his arms and turning his back on the Naga Lord.

"'I do not. Now, let's get to it. We have business.'

"'We do not have business. You tricked Chabi with enchantments and hold both of us against our will. Free us now.'

"'I did all that?' whispered the charming king, with an infuriating smirk.

"'Of course!"

"'I think not. Chabi is delighted to be here. I believe she will fit in quite well. Unless …you are willing …'

"'What is it you want?'

"'I know what you are, Lord Hedatiwi.'

"'Lord?'

"'Your lineage is ancient – so ancient I thought such beings extinct,' said the king, glancing sidelong at Hedatiwi.

"'You know where I come from?'

"'I do.'

"'Well!'

"'You must do something for me first.'

"'What is it?'

"'Find the wish fulfilling gem that was stolen from my crown. When you return with it; I shall tell you all I know.'

"'None of your trickery – how much do you know?'

"'Enough to make it worth your while,' said the king, picking up a cluster of grapes and tossing one into his mouth. He offered some to Hedatiwi, who shook his head.

"'Be precise,' said Hedatiwi, squinting at the king suspiciously.

"'Let me see; how do I explain this to a simpleton? Ah, yes, what I know would fill a book.'

"'How many pages?'

"'Two thousand.'

"'What size type?'

"'Twenty-six point.'

"'What size paper?'

"'Two by twenty.'

"'What a strange book!'

"'It is standard size in my domain.'

"'That is approximately two sentences per page or four thousand sentences,' calculated Hedatiwi.

"'Well, to be precise it just one very long sentence, but I think you will find it of interest.'

"'What language?'

"'I promise you will be able to read it.'

"'That is interesting, for I have no knowledge of reading in any language.'

"'You will not need it for this book.'

"'Why?' asked Hedatiwi.

"'I can see you do not trust me; so I shall give you a peek.'

"Without further ado, the king snapped his fingers, and, from thin air, a very long but exceedingly narrow, ancient brown leather text appeared. The letters of its cover glowed with golden light, and, when King Shehsha murmured a song, those letters flew from the cover, swirling about Hedatiwi, enveloping him in a strange world that slowly unfolded before his eyes.

"Under the brilliant blue dome of a vast, clear sky, an exceedingly tall, radiant woman stood on a rocky promontory, overlooking a hazy aqua sea. She wore the gold circlet of a queen atop her waist length, wavy black hair. Her soft white dress reached her ankles in three tiers, each with an embroidered boundary of colorful geometric designs. Attached to her dress by gleaming golden pins that looked like writhing snakes, hung a multicolor striped cape that fluttered in the chilly breeze; while upon her ivory feet, she wore bejeweled sandals.

"Hedatiwi watched her in profile, though she saw him not. By her clothing and bearing, he knew, she must be, at the very least nobility, more likely royalty. She seemed to be scanning the horizon in search of something, and, as she turned in his direction, he saw she clutched a small bundle to her chest. Her beauty so mesmerized Hedatiwi that he could not pull his gaze from her, and, when, from that bundle of soft sky blue cloth two little feet kicked the air, he realized she held a baby.

"The child began to whimper, and she hushed it, allowing it to suckle at her breast while she turned three hundred sixty degrees searching the heavens. When she stopped Hedatiwi followed her line of sight and saw a speck of green light enclosed in concentric circles of blue and red. At this, she climbed quickly down the promontory and hid under a rocky overhang. The restless child squirmed in her arms, letting out a wail, as the lovely woman calmed it with a lullaby of such heart-wrenching beauty, that both the enchanted child and Hedatiwi drifted to sleep. But what happened next brought Hedatiwi flying back from the edge of the dream realm, for from the earth rose a woman, holding up her strong, lovely arms to receive the babe.

"Though older, the earth woman bore a remarkable resemblance to the woman who held the child. She, too, wore a crown, but hers sparkled with gems. The two women spoke in a language Hedatiwi did not comprehend, but the sound of it filled him with great wonder and joy. When their conversation came to an end, the younger woman lifted the sleeping child, kissing his forehead, and then, after searching his tiny face, she delivered him into the arms of the earth woman, who immediately disappeared beneath the ground.

"Now alone, the lovely women wept as the scene faded, and Hedatiwi once more faced King Shehsha.

"'I take it that piqued your interest?' asked the Naga King.

"'Who are they?' asked Hedatiwi, moved by the woman's plight.

"'Distant relatives….'

"'Who? Tell me!'

"'All will be revealed when you return with my wish fulfilling jewel.'

"'And what of Chabi?'

"'If, after you have returned the jewel, she wishes to go with you, she may.'

"'How will I find you?'

"'Well, it's a wish fulfilling jewel, is it not? Make a wish.'

"'How will I find it?'

"'I shall bestow two gifts upon you that should help. This vial of mercury and my beloved creature of the skies.'

"'When did you last have the jewel?'

"'At the palace of my fourth wife – the lovely and youthful Lady Kotone – on the occasion of her first millennial birthday party. Later that evening, I allowed her the great honor of removing my crown. She placed it on the bedside table as we prepared to roam the bliss fields, but when we returned, after many days, though the crown remained, the wish fulfilling jewel had disappeared.'

"'When did this happen?'

"'A few days ago, two hundred years by your reckoning.'

"'Two hundred years?'

"'Indeed."

"'I must speak with Lady Kotone.'

"'You may not!'

"'Then how can I conduct an investigation? I must have access to her and her palace.'

"'What is the meaning of this word access?'

"'I must interrogate her and her staff.'

"'Interrogate?' asked the king, scandalized.

"'Ask her questions, my lord.'

"'I see; then you will be accompanied by one of my servants. '

"'As you wish.'

"'Now, go along with you. Chabi and I have ...'

Heathcliff stopped; the path had ended in at a hedgerow with a wicket. He turned to Oisin. "What now, Mister Oisin?"

"Through the wicket to that field yonder," answered Fin Ward.

Upon closer examination Heathcliff could see smoke rising, and, in the quiet, heard the laughter of a small child or two. He opened the wicket and led his horse through, followed by Hareton.

"Close that, Hareton," ordered Heathcliff, surveying the land with admiration. It looked as if it had once been an estate garden which left untended had only increased in beauty. "Whose land is this?"

"It's Hindley's," said Hareton. "He won it playing cards."

"Did he now?" laughed Heathcliff, coveting all he saw. After passing through the wicket, they followed a narrow trail that brought them past a hill with a granite rock face. It turned abruptly, climbing to the top of the grassy hill side where they now stood under the branches of an ancient oak, surveying fields dotted by overgrown flowering bushes and exotic trees.

"Your father cheated!" said Fin.

"He did not!" exclaimed Hareton.

"And who was the unlucky man?" asked Heathcliff.

"I don't know," said Fin, turning away.

"How is it Mister Oisin lives here?"

"His mum shelters in yonder cottage."

"That is clear. Does she pay rent?" Heathcliff could see the rundown cottage.

"She dosth," said Oisin.

"The landlord is robbing her," frowned Fin.

"That he is," said a voice from above them. "The bastard!"

"Aideen! Annie!" shouted Fin and Oisin, laughing.

Heathcliff looked up to find a young girl of perhaps twelve, sitting above them on a strong, thick branch of the giant oak. A smaller girl sat next to her. They bore an obvious resemblance to Oisin.

"And who might he be?" asked Aideen, the older girl of the two girls, pointing at Heathcliff.

"Thasth's Misther Heathcwiff," said Oisin.

"Why are the likes of ye riding such a noble horse?"

"Mister Heathcliff needs a laundress," explained Finn. "He asked us to show him the way."

"Ye had better wait here. The landlord's come for the rent, and he's drunk as a lord."

"But … the rent isth paid," said Oisin.

"Ye are so clever for a little one, Oisin. Indeed, Mum showed him the receipt, but he tore it up. Why are ye with that one?" asked Aideen, pointing to Hareton Earnshaw, who turned his face away in obvious shame.

"Mister Heathcliff is his uncle," explained Fin.

"Ye are Mister Earnshaw's brother?" said the girl, staring at him in surprise.

"Only by the vagaries of ill luck," said Heathcliff. "I must have my horse, lads."

Lifting Oisin, Heathcliff set the boy on the ground as Fin Ward slid down the horse's flank. Then he mounted his horse, and watched for a moment as Aideen stood and gracefully walked the length of the branch.

"Come on, Annie," coaxed Aideen, when she had reached the trunk. Heathcliff, who stood under the little girl, prepared to catch her, but she crawled without incident down the branch to her sister. Aideen handed Annie down to Fin and then climbed down herself. Impressed, Heathcliff turned his horse toward the cottage.

"You lot wait here. And no more gambling, Hareton," ordered Heathcliff. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Heathcliff."

"I'll be back shortly. Mistress Aideen you are in charge."

"But Misther Heathcwiff …"

"Mister Oisin?"

"What happened to Lord Hedasthiwi?"

"Who is Lord Hedasthiwi?" asked Aideen.

"It's Hedatiwi!" said Hareton, disgusted.

"Why he went on the quest for the wish fulfilling gem, of course," explained Heathcliff.

"But how did it turn out?" asked Fin.

"He's had many adventures, but still he searches."

"What of Chabi?" asked Hareton.

"When time and circumstances permit I'll tell more. Now I have business to conduct." Heathcliff nudged his horse, following the trail to the dilapidated cottage, chuckling to himself. He would have this land today.

"Tell me," shouted Aideen. "Who is this Lord Hedatiwi?"

Heathcliff drew up his horse and listened.

"We are sworn to secrecy," said Hareton. "Girls like ye are not permitted to know."

"You may tell her the story of Hedatiwi, but that is all," called Heathcliff, irritated by Hareton's snobbery. "The rest is a secret."

"Ye will be amazed," said Fin. "I've never heard the like."

"Well, get on with it," said Aideen, settling on the ground with Annie on her lap.

"Hesth a boy born from the earth," said Oisin. "And he hasth magic powersth."

"I don't understand."

"Well, shut yer trap, and we'll tell you," said Fin.

Heathcliff wondered how the story would morph, but that could wait. Hindley Earnshaw needed taking down.


	6. Motherless Children

**Chapter Six: Motherless Children**  
><strong>by Ivy Rangee<strong>

"Hareton," shouted Heathcliff, from the landing of the backstairs. "Have you changed your clothes yet?"

"Nay," called Hareton, his voice barely audible.

"Then do so and come down! It's time to milk Angelina."

With an impatient growl, Heathcliff settled on the third step above the landing; resting his back against the wall, he stretched his legs so his boots touched the banister opposite. How many times had he and Cathy played on this dark, dusty landing? Rarely used, it had been a perfect hideaway with its steeply gabled walls and gaudy banister. The two children had tacked cloth along the railing, making a castle where they might take shelter from the human storms that regularly raged over the Heights.

"Heathcliff!" shouted Hareton, his voiced filled with panic. "Come."

"What is it, Hareton?" asked Heathcliff, rising quickly and climbing the stairs two at a time to the back hallway.

"Help!" shouted the boy.

"Is it Hindley?"

"'Tis the cat."

"What have you done now?" grumbled Heathcliff, frustration clear in his voice. At the word cat, he'd slowed to a walk, making his way down the long, narrow corridor to Hareton's bedroom.

"Not'in'."

"I'm beginning to regret entrusting that cat to your care." Standing with his arms crossed in the boy's doorway, Heathcliff suppressed a smile for behind the clothes press shivered a tiny calico kitten, looking for all the world like a drowned rat; yet it bravely held its paw in a defensive stance ready to scratch without mercy. "How many times must I remind you that cats detest water?"

"I must be part cat," said the boy.

"Indeed, thus you should understand." Heathcliff looked about the room; Hareton's wash basin sat upon the floor surrounded by a puddle of water. "Do you have a towel?"

"Nay, but I have this," said Hareton, handing Heathcliff a clean shirt.

"Hareton! I paid Oisin's mother to wash and press this. It is not to be used as a cat towel," scolded Heathcliff, grabbing the shirt as he got to his knees.

"Too late," smirked Hareton, crossing his arms defiantly.

"You are too rough with the kitten. Watch what I do, and imitate me."

Heathcliff made little mewling sounds as, on his knees, he inched toward the kitten who in turn dropped her paw and tottered toward him. Picking her up, Heathcliff wrapped her in Hareton's shirt, afterward holding the terrified beast to his chest to warm her.

"What possessed you to wash the cat yet again?" demanded Heathcliff.

"She got dirty."

"Since when has that been a problem for you?"

"I'm her guardian; 'tis my duty to look after her." Hareton held out his hands for the beleaguered kitten who cowered in Heathcliff's arms.

"Have you named her?" asked Heathcliff, gently rubbing her dry.

"Nay."

"Well then, there's no time to lose."

"What about Little Abe?" asked the boy as he watched Heathcliff intently.

"Little Abe? Is that not a boy's name? How about Lucinda? Or Juliet seems a good moniker for a mouser."

"I say Little Abe." With an imperious expression, the boy stood, feet apart, arms akimbo as Heathcliff stared transfixed. In this moment, Hareton resembled Cathy to a striking degree.

"Why not?" said Heathcliff, looking away with effort. "Little Abe it is. Now, do you see how I hold her and gently rub her dry? That is how you must treat her. You are too harsh; she is still only a very young kitten."

"But I want to play with her!" whined Hareton, frowning. He kneeled and brought his face close to Little Abe's who turned, hiding her face in Heathcliff's armpit.

"In a few weeks she'll be ready to roughhouse with you," explained Heathcliff as the cat retreated up his shirt. "She is too young for that now. Will you do as I've shown you?"

"Nay!"

"Is it not your wish to learn how to care for animals?"

"'Tis."

"Then you must listen to me." By this time Little Abe had clawed her way up Heathcliff's shirt to perch upon his shoulder, snuggling down at the back of his collar even as she commenced chewing on his hair.

"She loves ye; she hates me! Why?" demanded the dour Hareton. He stood and paced to the window.

"Because you are too rough with her; treat her appropriately and she will be your servant."

"Appropa … what?"

"Little Abe is a very young kitten; young kittens must be held gently. Not shaken about, dangled out windows, or held in water."

"Somethin' must be wrong with her!"

"No, she is acting like any young kitten."

"She'll play proper when she's grown some?" demanded the boy.

"I believe I have repeated that at least one hundred times!" Heathcliff wondered how children survived childhood, given the patience required of the adults who raise them.

"Ye take her 'til she's growed."

"The word is grown. And no, by then she will be my cat. It is you who must care for her, and you must do so as a mother would, so she will be loyal to you."

"And how do ye 'spect me to do that?" asked Hareton, stomping his foot in anger.

Heathcliff realized his blunder. After all, neither he nor Hareton had much experience with mothering. How did the old song go? _Nobody on Earth can take a mother's place when the mother is gone._

"If you observe mothers with their children you will learn," said Heathcliff, attempting to explain something of which he had little firsthand knowledge. "Think of Oisin's mother when we brought him home. How she took him upon her lap and hugged him. Remember? Then she cleaned him up and fed him, but not harshly; she used only the lightest touch, bringing forth his laughter as she cared for him."

Hareton stared at Heathcliff. With his lower lip pushed forward in an angry pout, another stabbing reminder of Cathy, the child looked on the verge of a tearful rage. Intently returning the child's glare, Heathcliff considered whether to go harsh or gentle; he understood how Hareton felt. It is a hard world for motherless children; watching the loving interactions between Oisin and his mother would arouse anger, sorrow and jealousy in one who longed for it. Of this Heathcliff did have firsthand knowledge.

"Since you and I are members of the same unhappy club, we both know that, poor as he is, Oisin is a lucky lad. But, though we lack what he has, that does not mean we cannot learn a mother's ways. Tell me when you look at Little Abe what do you see?"

Hareton went to Heathcliff and took a seat on the floor beside him, resting his head against Heathcliff's arm. With a frown, the boy rubbed his eyes, seemingly deep in thought.

"A ball of fur with big gold eyes."

"What else?" asked Heathcliff.

"Soft…tottering, like Oisin's baby sister."

"How does it make you feel?"

"I do na know…funny…kinda sick."

Heathcliff understood. "Do you love anyone, Hareton?"

"Nay."

"Not a soul?" demanded Heathcliff, somewhat hurt.

"Do you?"

"I do."

"Well maybe a little."

"Who?"

"Angelina."

Puzzled, Heathcliff eyed the boy. "The cow?"

"What other Angelina is there?"

"Undoubtedly there are many," said Heathcliff, with a weary smile. "Here is my advice, as one who has preceded you down this lonely path. When you feel funny and sick pick up your kitten and pet her - gently. You will feel better. Treat her well now, and she will be your companion later; not to mention a reliable mouser."

"I will try it," said Hareton, his chin quivering.

"Are you crying?"

"Nay, I just feel sick and funny, like I said. Gimme Little Abe."

Lifting her gingerly from where she hid entangled in his hair, Heathcliff handed the kitten to Hareton. Now dry, she was a ball of multicolored fluff with two enormous, innocent golden eyes. Heathcliff watched as Hareton unsuccessfully attempted to pet her gently while she tried to escape the boy's clumsy grasp. But Hareton persisted, and, after a short protest, Little Abe settled into his arms and collapsed in sleep. Hareton looked up to Heathcliff, happiness and amazement clear on his young face.

"Well done, but be ever watchful. Cats are inscrutable," said Heathcliff, his tone that of a stern instructor.

"'Tis not so hard." Hareton stood and carried Little Abe to a narrow closet where within lay Little Abe's carefully constructed sleeping nest. Hareton and Heathcliff had taken this step in order to keep her hidden from Hindley.

"You had better put on your milking clothes; Angelina must be fit to burst."

Walking to the clothes press, Hareton rummaged through it, finally pulling out a work shirt and pants. He threw the rough garments into the air, catching them as he made his way toward his bed, and he sang as he went.

"Red roof on a green hill top,  
>A bell tower shaped like a pixie hat.<br>The bell rings, ding-dong-ding  
>Oh, ding-dong-ding."<p>

Heathcliff observed the boy; when Hareton's heart was not burdened by Hindley's drunken madness, he resembled Cathy to a remarkable degree. And now he even sounded like her. How many times had Heathcliff run across the moor with Cathy trailing him, the two chanting that same rhyme? What he would give to return to those days.

"Ye art lookin' at me funny! Do na watch me!" ordered Hareton, unbuttoning his vest.

"As you wish," said Heathcliff. "I'll wait for you outside."

"Nay, Heathcliff. Do na leave; just turn away."

Heathcliff made for the door. "I have things to do; it is the waxing gibbous moon and I …"

"Please wait," begged the boy.

"But why?"

"There's things I must ask ye?"

"Speak up then."

"Why do ye help those people?"

"Of what people do you speak, Hareton?" Knowing very well what people, Heathcliff leaned against the door-surround his arms crossed against the tedious obsessive question. By this time Little Abe had awoken and took Heathcliff's idleness as opportunity to crawl clumsily up his pant leg, mewling all the way. Once she reached his shirt, she stretch out along the length of his forearm; gazing up at him adoringly with her bright golden eyes; she vibrated, purring loudly. "You belong to the boy," he whispered; she seemed to frown in response.

"Oisin and his mother … and Fin Ward, too."

"I've done nothing to help them."

"Don't lie! I hate liars!"

"Me? Lie? Never. I take pride in my reputation for brutal honesty," replied Heathcliff, lightly scratching Little Abe's soft furry head. "All I have done is strictly for my own ends; if I aided Mister Ward and Mister Oisin as a result, it was an unintended consequence."

"Ye did promise never to lie."

"I have not broken my oath. By lucky happenstance I coveted the land where Oisin's mother rents. It was her further good luck that Hindley needed cash. Indeed the stars must have aligned in her favor to a remarkable degree, for as it turned out, your father, in a rare bit of luck, had won that piece of land in a game of chance. Hence the plot is not part of the fee-tail property. Thus unencumbered by legal complications, I bought it outright."

"But ye do treat them good!" said the indignant boy.

"So what?"

"Hindley don't."

"It's 'does not'. And why would I ever model my behavior on his?" sighed Heathcliff, growing tired of the interrogation.

"Ye did fix their cottage!" shouted Hareton as if he exposed a great sin.

"As a local landlord it is of the utmost importance that I gain a good reputation. I learned that from your grandfather and namesake, Hareton."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Get a good repu'tion?" asked Hareton.

""Reputation. In order to charge higher rents. What other reason is there?"

"But Oisin's ma does na pay ye."

"Indeed, she does. She washes and presses all our laundry."

"But that's not payin'," said Hareton. He sounded like an attorney resting his case.

"How did you arrive at that?"

"Washin' clothes is easy."

"Is that so?" asked Heathcliff, with a smirk.

"'Tis."

"Have you ever done such work?"

"Nay! 'Tis the duty of women folk. How hard could it be?"

"I think you should answer that for yourself, Hareton. Next week when you deliver the laundry to Oisin's mother, I shall arrange matters so you may stay for the day to help with the wash. Someday you might have to care for your own clothing as I did on my travels. Then too you will find out the truth of how easy such work is. Are you dressed yet?"

"Nay!"

"Well, what in hell are you doing?" demanded Heathcliff, overcome by an intense wave of impatience. The child's dawdling felt like an anchor pulling him down.

"Why do ye cradle Little Abe so?" asked Hareton, who appeared at Heathcliff's side without warning.

"She climbed my pant leg, and demanded my attention."

"Let's take her to the barn."

"As you wish, but you must return her to her nest before we leave for the churchyard."

"The kirkyard? Why?" whined Hareton.

"So your father does not find her."

"No, why do we go to the kirkyard? I hate that place."

"To visit your Aunt Cathy's grave."

Hareton glared at up at Heathcliff. "Ye are weird."

"So I've been told," said Heathcliff. "Are we still friends?"

"'Course. Ye fit right in at the Heights. Give me Little Abe."

Unable to suppress a smile, Heathcliff returned the cat to its master, afterward standing aside and waving the boy out the door. He felt oppressed and couldn't wait to get into the open air; looking after this boy tested him in every way. But the child was Cathy's nephew and Old Earnshaw's grandson. Debts had been incurred; payment had come due.

Passing Hareton, Heathcliff ran down the steps, and out the back door, inhaling the cool, evening air with relief. The outdoors always lifted his burdens. With all Hareton's dilly-dallying, the sun now rested low on the horizon, striping the sky in purples, reds and yellows. In the valley, the churchyard would already be deep in shadows. They would have to wait until the moon rose to visit Cathy's grave, but perhaps that would be for the best.

Following Heathcliff, Hareton stepped outside with Little Abe balanced precariously on his shoulder. The young boy walked to his protector, and, cautiously sidling up to him, slipped his small hand into Heathcliff's. Normally Heathcliff would shake off such familiarity, but this evening he let it go for Cathy's sake. For a few moments, the two shared the sinking of the sun beneath the greening hills just as Heathcliff and Cathy once had an eternity or two ago. Duty broke nature's spell when Angelina bellowed pitifully, unceremoniously interrupting their reverie.

"That cow's in pain and she won't milk herself," declared Heathcliff, slipping free of the boy's grip.

"What are ye waitin' for then?" demanded the ever-surly Hareton. "Standin' 'bout moonin' at the sunset." In his imitation of Joseph, the boy giggled with delight. "Do ye get it? Moonin' at the sun." The child doubled up with laughter.

"What do you call that?" asked Heathcliff, crossing his arms and gazing down at the boy.

"A jest."

"Seriously?"

"Do ye never laugh?" demanded Hareton.

"Of course I do. You've seen me."

"I've seen ye smile at the odd comment. If ye can call it a smile; it's more like a sneer gone wrong."

"Are you taking me to task?"

"Ye are no judge of what is funny; that is clear."

"I suggest we take that jest to Mister Oisin and Mister Finn. If they find it humorous I stand corrected."

At that the poor cow wailed once more.

"Get the lantern, Hareton, before Angelina expires."

For once Hareton promptly did as directed, and the two made their way to the cowshed where the boy hung the lantern on a hook just outside the cow's stall. It cast a soft, intimate, circular glow leaving the corners of the shed in total darkness. Angelina stomped her hooves, obviously in great distress while the boy retrieved the milking stool and bucket. Opening the gate, he entered the stall, cautiously placing the milking stool beside the anxious cow.

"Don't be afraid, boy. She'll sense it."

"I don't want to get my foot stomped, again," protested Hareton, carefully placing the bucket beneath the cow's udders; afterward, sitting down gingerly, he grabbed her teats and wrenched. The unhappy cow let forth an almost human scream, pushing the boy against the half wall of the stall.

"Have you learned nothing?" asked Heathcliff, his tone severe.

"Help me, Heathcliff, she's got me wedged tighter than an egg in a hen's butt."

"You have gotten what you deserve," admonished Heathcliff with a smile at the child's colorful description. Turning to Angelina, Heathcliff rubbed her ears. "Did the mean boy pull your sensitive udders as if he yanked a dandelion weed from the field? There, there, now, he's not the total idiot he seems; he will learn." Then, running his hand gently down her muzzle, he whispered sweet nothings in her ear, comforting the desperate cow. In response the poor animal nuzzled his chest as he maneuvered her back to the middle of her stall. "Now try again, Hareton. Gently. And warm your hands."

"Why'd ye tear me down before Angelina?" demanded Hareton as, rubbing his hands together, he tried once more. This time he managed to extract milk.

"I had to sooth her, so I commiserated with her."

"Commiserwhated?"

"Com-mis-er-ate. Agreeing with her about you."

"Why is she so touchy?"

"You made her wait too long. Never make a milk cow wait past milking time. They will become ill after which their milk will dry up."

"How do they make milk, Heathcliff?"

"They produce it for their calves." Heathcliff moved beside the boy so he could observe the child's technique more closely. "Just as human mothers do for their babies."

"Did my mother make milk for me?"

"Ask your father."

"Ye were there."

"I was, but I was not privy to your mother's milk making abilities."

"Why?"

"It is a matter that women hold close. But, by logical extension, she must have."

"How?"

"You are a fine, strong child, and it is said that such qualities are determined at the mother's breast."

"Oh," said Hareton, looking up at Heathcliff. "Then yer mother must o' had very fine milk."

Heathcliff eyed the boy; he'd only made the comment to comfort the child. But Hareton spoke the truth. Indeed, Heathcliff did have a remarkable constitution; he'd survived illnesses and deprivations that had been the demise of others. Had this been a gift from his lost mother's milk?

"Watch what you are doing, Hareton!" demanded Heathcliff. Talk of his mother infuriated Heathcliff, though he did not know why. "Damn it, boy, the earth is saturated with milk yet there is barely a drop in the bucket."

"When will you tell the rest of the story about Hedatiwi and your travels?" asked Hareton. Impervious to criticism, he happily grasped the cow's teats, this time squirting milk directly into the wooden bucket.

"I cannot continue the story without Mister Oisin and Mister Finn. It would not be fair," said Heathcliff, watching the boy. "You're pulling too hard; you must gently cajole Angelina, tickling the milk out, otherwise it won't taste sweet. Warm, gentle, knowing hands. And singing helps."

"I know no songs; Joseph forbids all but church chants and I hate those."

"You seem to hate a great many things. But you do know a song for I heard you sing it while you changed."

"That counts for a song?" asked Hareton.

"It does, and you are in luck for I allow no church chants." Heathcliff smiled smugly. "Have no fear; I shall teach you the best of my cow milking repertoire."

"Reperwhat?"

"The songs that bring forth plentiful, sweet milk from our sister, Mistress Cow."

The boy released the cow's udders, bringing his hands together as if in prayer and then rubbing them together.

"That's it; keep your hands toasty warm. She likes that; remember a cow is like a woman. Gentle, easy treatment does the trick."

Hareton stared blankly at Heathcliff. "How's that?"

"What do you mean?"

"That's not how you treated Aunt Isabella."

Heathcliff gave the boy a sour look. "She is a special case."

"How so?"

"It's complicated."

Now it was Hareton's turn to look sour, "How will I ever know how to milk Angelina if I never see a woman gentled."

"Forgive me, Hareton; the Heights is like an army barracks. We should find a housekeeper so you may have the experience of a woman in your life."

"Will you gentle her, Heathcliff?"

Swallowing laughter, Heathcliff coughed, turning away from the child to hide his smile. "The damndest things come forth from your mouth, child."

"Why would a woman stay here?" grumbled Hareton. "Even Aunt Catherine left. Why did she marry that damnable twit, Linton?"

"Do you remember your Aunt Catherine?"

"Nay…My hands ache."

"Rest a minute; then begin again. You will grow stronger the more you milk. That is another positive aspect."

"I thought t'would be easier."

"Have you gained respect for those who gather your food?" asked Heathcliff.

Hareton frowned at Heathcliff for a moment and then recommenced his efforts. "Why did ye help them?"

"Who?"

"Oisin and his mother, damn it!"

Heathcliff ignored this millionth iteration of the question. "Little Abe wants refreshment. Do you remember how to give her a squirt as I have shown you?"

Hareton aimed at the cat, but, instead of her mouth, he got her square between the eyes. She mewled and tottered to one side. "How do ye do that Heathcliff? Yer aim is flawless."

"Boredom and years of practice. Try again, but this time do not bend her teat so acutely."

Hareton tried once more, but hit Little Abe's gold and white ear. "Bloody hell," cursed the boy, squinting at the cat as he aimed carefully taking another shot. This time it was a direct hit. "I did it. Did ye see it, Heathcliff?""

"Well done, but don't get cocky. Now finish up; after dinner we are going to visit your Aunt Cathy's grave."

"Are ye sure ye want to go to the kirkyard at night?"

"Are you afraid, Hareton?"

"Nay!"

"Have you ever been to your aunt's gravesite?"

"Nay."

"And why is that?"

"I don't know. Ask Hindley."

"Ask Hindley what?" demanded Hindley Earnshaw, standing just outside the circle of light. "Call me father, boy. What in hell are you doing?"

"I'm milking a cow," growled Hareton. "Are ye blind as well as mad?"

"You may not speak to me that way, Hareton!" Hindley staggered a little even as he tried to sound stern. "That activity is beneath your station."

"Leave him alone, Hindley. Every child wants to learn to milk a cow – except for you, that is. Your father was terrified of cows. Did you know that, Hareton? He thought they'd trample him."

"'Tis not surprising. He's a damnable twit," declared Hareton, continuing to milk. "So they probably would've stomped him."

"Yes, Hareton, they smell fear," declared Heathcliff.

"You are the devil incarnate; now you have turned my son against me," shouted Hindley, wavering with the effort. He was inebriated, but not completely befuddled.

"I turned him against you?" chuckled Heathcliff.

"Yes, Cuckoo," smirked Hindley as he steadied himself against a post. "And now you make him into your slave."

"Do not call me that infernal epithet ever again or you will regret it," ordered Heathcliff, advancing on his childhood enemy, who backed away until Angelina's stall barred any further retreat. "And if you are curious about who turned Hareton against you look in a mirror. All I have done is teach him to be self sufficient so he won't be utterly useless like you, Linton and the rest of your frivolous class."

"Leave the Heights at once!" shouted Hindley, staggering forward and fumbling in his long coat.

"Nay, Hindley!" shouted Hareton. "Nay!"

"You wish to send me away?" Heathcliff touched the boy's shoulder, signaling the child to remain silent.

"Go! Or I'll have my brother-in-law the magistrate on you!" threatened Hindley, still fumbling in his coat.

"Magistrate Linton? Nothing would please me more. But the consensus in Gimmerton has him hiding in his study. Guilt, no doubt."

"Get out! You demon bastard! I fucking hate you!"

"Fine, Hindley, but first pay me what you owe."

"Nay, Heathcliff, nay do not leave," begged Hareton, taking up Little Abe, and hugging her to him.

"Shut up, Hareton, and where the hell did you get that hideous grimalkin?" asked Hindley, reaching down and sweeping Little Abe from Hareton's arms.

"She's mine! Let her be!" screamed Hareton. "If ye kill this one, ye will pay." Little Abe mewled, wriggling wildly to free herself.

Hindley laughed at the boy as with great difficulty he pulled his knife from the pocket of his great, riding coat. "What shall I cut first? You know I think you'd look better without ears?"

"Nay! Hindley. Ye mustn't." Hareton leaped at his father, trying to save the mewling kitten.

"Ask nicely, and call me father, boy, or I shall cut out her eyes and eat them for supper."

"Please father," wept Hareton. "Give her back."

"We do not have pets here at the Heights. They are a waste of food. I condemn her to death." Hindley held the knife to the tiny cat's throat.

"Nay, father, nay," gulped the young boy, grabbing his father's arm and dangling from it. "She's a mouser, father, born and bred. We've mice in the pantry. She will work for her keep."

"I've never seen any mice," said Hindley. "You're a liar, boy."

"Nay, father, I speak the truth. One drowned in the milk."

As the two fought, Heathcliff took Hindley from behind. With one arm around the drunken man's neck, he twisted the hand which held Little Abe until Hindley released her. She fell to the hay-covered floor as Hareton swooped down to pick her up, retreating to the Angelina's stall where he dipped his fingers in milk, letting the squealing cat lick them clean.

"Still a coward, eh Hindley? Always picking on those weaker than you. Let the boy alone, your grievance is with me. Now about my money."

What money?" demanded Hindley, waving dismissively at Heathcliff, who in return smirked - ominously.

"What money. Do you hear that, boy?" said Heathcliff, gazing at the intoxicated man with hard, glittering eyes. "Hareton, saddle your pony and fetch Solicitor Green; have him bring the financial contracts between your father and I. That should remind you, Hindley, of the rather substantial amount you owe me, which, as you know, I may call due at any time. And Hareton, you had better take Little Abe with you. "

"Stay where you are Hareton, or I'll put that fur ball to bed with a shovel," said Hindley, waving his knife. "I let you stay, Cuckoo, for the favor I owed you, but you have used my good nature to entangle me in debt. You are a dishonorable, thieving gypsy; therefore, I owe you nothing."

"The law is the law, Hindley, even you cannot break a contract," said Heathcliff, folding his arms as Hindley waved his knife about. "You signed away the Heights to me until such time as you can make restitution."

"You think by stealing the Heights you can reclaim Catherine. But she's dead, the result of your gloomy presence. You are to blame…"

"Hareton, take the milk to the kitchen and then go to your room," ordered Heathcliff. "Your father and I have serious matters to discuss."

"Stay where you are, Hareton," growled Hindley, staring at Heathcliff, who returned his gaze.

That young boy looked from one to the other, and then, with little Abe stuffed safely in his shirt, he picked up the bucket of milk and lugged in it to the house.

"Hareton!" shouted Hindley. "Get back here!" But Hareton did not look back.

"You've lost him," said Heathcliff. "But then you never deserved him."


	7. Gold into Lead

**Chapter 7: Gold into Lead  
><strong>by Ivy Darcourt

Stomping her hooves, Angelina lowed sharply, but her demand for attention bore no fruit for Heathcliff and Hindley were immersed in a staring contest. In the dim light of the flickering lantern, Heathcliff's eyes glittered fiercely as Hindley flinched first, presumably to rummage through the large pocket of his riding coat.

"You have no right to interfere between father and son. But then that is the way of a cuckoo, is it not?" whimpered Hindley, who sat sprawled in the hay, his back resting against a post. Having found what he wanted, he cast a sideways glance at Heathcliff.

"You were an unworthy son, and now you are an unworthy father," declared Heathcliff, who crossed his arms and stared with narrowed eyes at Hindley. Heathcliff's gaze carried such authority that an outside observer might have feared they'd inadvertently crossed into the Underworld only to stumble upon Lord Hades judging some unfortunate shade. "Your father thought you weak," added Heathcliff.

"Shut up!" shouted Hindley, attempting to stand, but failing. Defeated, he did manage to pull a flask from his pocket and remove the cork. "_You_ may not speak for my father."

"Ah, but I was far closer to Father than ever you were. Your trifling nature disappointed him." Heathcliff smiled weirdly as he stared down on the bane of his childhood. "I overheard him speak of it once to a fortuneteller, of all people. He feared your actions would lead to the demise of the Earnshaw family and thus the Heights. He was quite prescient."

"Unfortunately, he did not have the insight to realize the thief hid right under his nose." Pressing his back against a post, Hindley took a long pull from his flask, and then pushed himself upward in an awkward effort to stand. Once upright, he swayed, hugging the pole as though he clung to a ship's mast in a storm.

"Must you drink yourself into oblivion every night?" asked Heathcliff with disgust.

"You should try it."

"And why is that?"

"It is a great panacea for all that pains."

"I don't want pain relief; pain keeps me focused. Truly, I would miss it; it has been a loyal companion for a very long time."

"How can you bear it?" asked Hindley, sliding down the post to sit once more in the hay.

"My capacity to bear pain is in great part due to your persistent efforts. Thank you for that," said Heathcliff, continuing to gaze with pitiless eyes at the lost soul that was Cathy's brother. "Living with pain is second nature to me, and, because of that, I have no illusions as to nature of this world. Truly, you were once a worthy opponent. Now you're just contemptible."

"Oh come now, are you telling me you never seek relief in whiskey or women?" Hindley crooked his head to one side, squinting upward with rheumy eyes, the whites of which were decidedly yellowed. He looked old and unwell. "What about that washerwoman? There is a great deal of talk about the two of you in Gimmerton."

"Oisin's mother?" laughed Heathcliff. "My tenant?"

Angelina bellowed once more, and this time Heathcliff answered her call. Petting her nose, he led her out of the milking stall and into her night enclosure where he secured her.

"Indeed, no one would blame you," said Hindley after another sip from his flask. "All men have needs, and I've heard it told that, when it comes to women, gypsy men are like stallions that've caught the scent of a mare in heat."

"Do I detect a bit of envy?" smirked Heathcliff. "I suppose you covet my power to give satisfaction. However, I never mix business and pleasure, and, as to my needs, you will never know how, where or even if I take my pleasure."

"Are you saying you are chaste as well as an abstainer?" Hindley had a hearty laugh over that. "I don't believe it. Or did you think no one could hear you and Isabella Linton carrying on? Joseph prayed himself into a stupor."

Heathcliff chuckled. "Joseph? Overindulge in fervor? Never!"

"You and your wife drove him mad, though I'm not sure whether it was with envy or disgust."

"That woman pestered me day and night; she nearly killed me. She might have been a courtesan in another world."

"Such indulgences take the bitterness out of time's passage."

"But they are like a lantern to sunlight."

"What are you prattling about?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"No. I do not."

"I am describing the difference between indulgence and love."

"In lieu of love indulgence will do. Besides, indulgence beckons oblivion."

"Why would I wish to forget the one I keep closest?"

"I assume you mean my dear sister, not her sister-in-law," said Hindley, with a superior smile as if he had pronounced something of great wit and insight. "You know, I have thought deeply about Catherine's short life, and I've come to count her death a fortunate circumstance for it puts her out of your reach forever."

"Much like Frances for you," spat Heathcliff, suppressing with all his considerable will the desire to thrash Hindley.

"Dog, you may not pronounce that blessed woman's name," screamed Hindley, trying to lunge at Heathcliff. Like all drunks his moods were mercurial. "Frances was as perfect as her love. She and I were happy; unlike you and Catherine. My sister was in your thrall; that is not love."

"You don't understand anything. It was I who was in Cathy's thrall," laughed Heathcliff, pushing Hindley back with his boot. "Your sister is a real sorceress. Unfortunately she did not have the strength to face her destiny in life. It seems to run in your family."

"My sister was happy until your return," said Hindley, struggling to remove Heathcliff's boot from his chest.

"As difficult as it may be, refrain from your usual idiocy. Cathy married Edgar Linton so she could escape the daily misery of your drunken excesses." Heathcliff gave Hindley one last shove before retreating.

"I was in deep mourning; something you should understand." Hindley devolved into drunken tears.

"And are you still in deep mourning? Is that the excuse you use every time you raise the bottle to your lips?"

"My drinking habits befit landed gentry," declared Hindley, wiping his eyes on his coat sleeve while trying to appear stately. "Besides, I drink with good reason; you should take it up instead of wandering gloomily about the Heights like a dog seeking its master. Though in truth it would limit my amusement, since your suffering is my greatest delight; many's the night I drink to your misery. Shall we toast our mutual woe?" Hindley held the flask up to Heathcliff.

"I never touch hard spirits."

"Too cheap, I suppose."

"I have things to accomplish that require a clear head. You should try it. The apothecary can dry you out."

"That quack – never! Besides, I doubt the Mister Kenneth will come willingly to my aid."

"Why? What have you done now?"

"Let's just say he'll need a good bathing when he gets home. It seemed so funny at the time – pushing him off his horse and holding his head in the bog, but now …"

"You realize you've acted the idiot?"

"How can I carry on without drink? Frances is gone – deep in the ground – moldering – disappearing - while her brat consorts with the likes of you … She should never have gotten with child. "

"I suppose you were a complete innocent in the matter. Odd that's not how I remember it."

"That child bears a curse."

"Now Hareton's to blame for her death," said Heathcliff, eyeing him closely. "But you are his father; thus you are the begetter of her death. And this cross you bear gives you reason to fritter your life away, shirking both your fatherly duties and those of your position?"

"Who are you to judge me? If I still mourn Frances that is my own concern; besides you are hardly one to criticize. Your obsession with my sister even in death borders on madness."

"Frances left you a strong, healthy son whom you see fit to make miserable. Certainly she would despise you for the way you treat him."

"Hareton is the author of his mother's death, not I. Whenever I look upon that child I wish to squeeze him until he screams."

"You dishonor Frances' memory with your base self-indulgence."

"You are a hypocrite; Catherine would be horrified by your miserly ways."

"If Catherine were alive and my wife, I would spare no expense to ensure her happiness. As for myself, I enjoy my work and prefer a simple, frugal life. What else is there?"

"Where did you get all that money?"

"Why would I trust you with such a confidence? Just be grateful I found wealth and returned to save you and your son."

"Save me? From what have you saved me?"

"Homelessness or worse, debtor's prison."

"What an imagination you have. I have never been in danger of debtor's prison."

"If you had not leased your land to me, you would have leased it to another; otherwise you could not pay for your gambling habit or any of the other frivolous addictions that rule your life."

"Gamblers do not go to debtor's prison."

"No, but they are subject to severe physical injury or even death at the hands of thugs if they do not pay what they owe. And you, for all your bragging, are a coward, Hindley. It was inevitable that you would seek an investor willing to accept the legalities of a fee tail. You may thank whatever luck you have left that I am cleverer than most in regard to that conundrum. No matter what the case, the lost income from the rental properties would have forced you to lease back your pasture land, leading you into further debt, just as you are in debt to me. However, unlike other investors, I shall never throw you and Hareton out or send you off to debtor's prison though you deserve it, you ungrateful peg."

"Why, Heathcliff, why not send me to that hell?" asked Hindley. He seemed weak as he slumped, leaning on his elbow with a sigh. "It would be a just revenge."

"That is for you to contemplate."

"Is it Father? Or Catherine?" demanded Hindley, twisting awkwardly to look up at Heathcliff. "No, it's Hareton; isn't it? You do not wish him the ignominy of a debtor father."

"The likes of you will never understand, Hindley." Heathcliff turned his back and moved to the shadows; the sight of Hindley, who showed obvious signs of serious illness, unsettled him.

"It was slaving; wasn't it? That was how you prospered. How else would a low life like you make such a fortune? You must know that is what people whisper."

"I shall say this. Never would I stoop to slaving - ever; I'll add an extra sovereign to your monthly allowance if you spread that about."

"You care what people say? Why?"

"Do you want the money or not?" growled Heathcliff, turning back to Hindley. So fierce was his expression that in the deep shadows of the flickering lantern light he resembled a wrathful deity.

Rubbing his eyes, Hindley shook his head; he seemed to be having trouble focusing. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Appear so strange. For a moment I thought you had transformed into a demon."

"Wasn't that issue settled long ago?"

"It must have been a trick of the light. Back to the matter at hand, how did you accumulate all that money, Heathcliff?"

"I earned it," replied Heathcliff, examining his old nemesis, who lay sprawled in the hay utterly helpless. "Sadly, you consider work beneath you, but your son will know how to occupy his time in worthwhile endeavor."

"Earned it how? Pirating?"

"Tell me, Hindley, what have you observed in regard to my business acumen?"

"I have not paid attention."

"I suppose you believe such considerations beneath you, but perhaps you should start taking note. You might learn something and improve your condition."

"No one of any worth works for money. Besides, I am close to the end of my rope, the end of which rapidly unravels; I have no desire to slow the inevitable."

"Even if you were offered means?"

"From the likes of you? Never."

"Thus the Earnshaw line dwindles. Now get up - unless you wish to sleep in the cow barn. I have things to do."

Hindley tried to rise, but he could not coordinate his torso with his extremities. Chanting a string of oaths, Heathcliff reached down and pulled his beloved Cathy's brother to his unsteady feet, and then, stooping, threw the inebriate over his shoulder. Dead weight, Hindley hung like a sack of potatoes as Joseph entered the barn.

"Wha' ha' ye dun to ta master?" asked the wizened, ancient acolyte.

"He's drunk," answered Heathcliff. "Take the lantern and go before me. Then you may prepare him some food."

"Liar! Ye ha' killed 'im. Murderer."

"You must kill the gypsy thief and revenge me, my faithful, old servant," said Hindley in a ghostly, wavering voice.

"Did ye 'ear tha'?" asked Joseph, shivering. "Ta' master calls form ta' other side."

"The other side of what you old fart?" demanded Heathcliff. "Hurry up, old man, he's heavy."

"The weight o' ye eternal damnation."

"Avenge me," moaned Hindley.

"Stop it, Hindley, or I will kill you," threatened Heathcliff.

Hindley laughed manically as the terrified Joseph shook like one afflicted with palsy. "Ye canna' silence a ghost."

"He is not dead. Now lead the way, old man," growled Heathcliff over Hindley's ghostly moans. "Cease, Hindley or I'll throw you to the ground."

"Ah, but you can no longer cause me pain," moaned Hindley. At this Joseph ran like a man one quarter his age with the devil on his tail. Unfortunately, he'd absconded with the lantern.

"Well done," said Heathcliff. "Now we must find our way in darkness." He waited motionless allowing, his eyes to adjust.

"He just makes it so easy," Hindley laughed, but then he whispered. "I believe it would be in your best interest to put me down; I'm going to be ill."

Heathcliff dropped Hindley to the ground where the dissolute fell to his knees and did indeed become quite ill. At the sight Heathcliff cursed; this was bad. He'd have to change his plans.

"Bloody hell, Hindley!" shouted Heathcliff. "I should make you clean this up."

Hindley lay on the pavers, moaning and gasping for air.

"Joseph! Get out here! And bring the lantern."

"Nay," shouted the old man from the kitchen entrance. "'Tis cursed where the undead walk."

"If you don't do as I say, I will drag your boney ass out here."

Joseph quickly disappeared as in a fury Heathcliff stormed toward the house, but before he could enter, the old man reappeared carrying a lantern. He walked tentatively toward Hindley, examining him. "Did ye bring 'em back to life?" the old man asked. Heathcliff rolled his eyes.

"If I could bring people back from the dead, would I be living here?"

"I ask ye ag'in. Di' ye raise him from the beyond?"

"Of course not, he's just dead drunk." Heathcliff stated this knowing he would never change the old man's mind. Tomorrow Joseph would spread the word – Heathcliff the necromancer – and Hindley would never deny it. He'd use it; the denizens of Gimmerton would buy him drinks so they might hear every detail of how he'd returned from the gates of hell.

"Suf'ren Jesus," declared Joseph as they stood over Hindley. "Heathcliff, ye be a wicked one, but yer powers are na' to be toyed with."

"I'm going for the apothecary," said Heathcliff. "Get him inside, and lay him out. Then clean this up – no wait, Mister Kenneth may want to see it for diagnosis."

"I canna move the likes of ta' mast'r on me own."

"Go and prepare his bed; and then bring him some food."

Heathcliff helped Hindley to his feet, lifting him over his shoulder after which he carried the stricken man into the house and up to his bedroom where he dropped the inebriate unceremoniously on his bed. All the while Heathcliff wondered why he bothered aiding the author of his childhood troubles.

"Are you sure you wish to continue on this path?" Heathcliff asked as he removed Hindley's great cloak and boots.

"I have no choice."

"Yes, you do. Think of your son."

"I cannot stop; when I do I'm madder than when I drink."

"There are cures available; I will extend your credit."

"Is that what you are doing in the upstairs garret with all your crucibles, retorts and chemicals? Looking for a cure for the drink?"

"What I do in the garret is my affair. As to the cure there is a place by the sea in Weymouth."

"You would actually pay for my cure? I hear it is quite costly."

"I said I would_ extend _your credit."

"No, my life is forfeit."

"Have you no imagination, Hindley?"

"Imagination? What has that to do with anything?"

"Imagine yourself recovered and, through the effort, master of the Heights again."

Hindley stared at Heathcliff as if considering such a miraculous change of circumstances. After a time he smiled. "But where would you go, Heathcliff? Hasn't taking the Heights for your own been your objective?"

"It has, but in truth it is a means to an end."

"Stop tormenting me with hope, cuckoo. You know I can never repay you."

Hindley reached under his mattress and pulled out a flask, but before he could drink Heathcliff swept in and took it from him.

"Give it, cuckoo," screamed Hindley. With terror in his eyes, he trembled.

"Wha' ha ye done to ta' master?" shouted Joseph from the doorway. He carried a tray with bowl of soup and cup of warm milk upon it.

"What took you so long, old man?" demanded Heathcliff, but he continued without waiting for an answer. "I'm going for Mister Kenneth. Do not under any circumstances let him imbibe spirits."

"But he canna' be stopped."

"Feed him and get him to sleep."

"He t'won't obey me. E'en now he cries like a bairn for its mother's milk." Indeed, Hindley wailed like a child. In frustration Heathcliff poured whiskey from the flask into the soup and then the milk.

"Eat and drink if you want your spirits."

Hindley put the soup bowl to his lips and gulped it down after which he lay back, closing his eyes. Joseph and Heathcliff watched him until, convinced he slept, Heathcliff made to leave, but Hindley roused at the creak of the floor boards.

"Where are you going?" he croaked.

"For the apothecary."

"May I remind you that Mister Kenneth is quite irritated with me."

"So you said; nevertheless he will come."

"I need no one."

"You're skin and eyes are as yellow as a turnip and your vomit is bloodied. You need to be seen."

"But who will pay him, Heathcliff?"

"I shall add it to your debt."

"Joseph, go for Mister Kenneth. I have business with Heathcliff."

"'Tis me Bible study time ye are taken up with yer foolishness."

"Go, old man or I'll send you packing! And who else would hire the likes of you, you Bible-thumping jackass?" roared Hindley.

Joseph left grumbling bitterly under his breath. When they were alone Hindley gazed up at Heathcliff. His eyes glittered in the candle light and the irises, though blue, appeared opaque and soulless.

"I have figured out how you made your money."

"Tell me; I can't wait."

"You have discovered the method for making lead into gold. That is what you are doing in the upstairs garrets."

Utterly surprised, Heathcliff laughed.

"Teach me."

"I have no need; I have more money than I will ever need, and I'm exceedingly good at investing. My money just grows more money."

"Then what are you doing up there? I hear you pacing at all hours of the night. And I don't believe you; how could you be good with money?"

"It is another sort of gold I strive for. And it was your father, Hareton Earnshaw, taught me how to invest."

"Another sort of gold?"

"You know, Hindley it amazes me that you would sooner believe I can convert lead into gold than make good investments."

"You said I should use my imagination."

"And you choose to think only of material gain."

"Teach me the method or I will kill you." Hindley pulled an old revolver from under his pillow and waved it at Heathcliff who laughed at the rusty thing which was probably not loaded.

"That would be impossible even if I knew how. Your gift lies in the opposite direction."

"Opposite?"

"Truly, Hindley, your expertise lay in changing gold into lead."

13


End file.
